April 2020
Sunset Boulevard is more beautiful at night when the stars are out, because then I don't have to look at the tears in your eyes. I can feel every drop, though, as I lay, bare, beneath you.
Your skin is touched by ink and angels, and as the revolution sweeps the coastline, you write my name like I'm a damned fool in a Shakespearean tragedy set to Jazz Age music. Each word is somehow enunciated like a death sentence, and you could be Salome. Or are you the baptist, and I the daughter of Herodias?
Progressivism had never felt better than when it was ringed in cigarette smoke, pulling the muggy air out of my bellowing lungs. A woman dances, her dress flickering like a splintered bulb. I wish I could paint her.
At midnight, day begins. I am condemned to the loneliness of these leather seats, leeched of life, too young for sleep, yet too old for it. Drop Turn Lane has the skid marks of the setting sun etched into its surface like lines of coke, cut, clean, dry, with the smell of death too pungent to ignore. I fly over it anyways, faster than I would without the fumes of imminent fire.
You paint the dancing woman with your breath, burning and dragon-like with a wilted poppy stamped onto her chest in the valley between her breasts. As the road tilts, you carve her open and the bulb shatters.
I have been taught too much by Hypatia's followers and yet I don't know fille from femme. I am one and the other, a hollow chalice spilled over. The Grail couldn't rival it, but a virgin could.
YOU ARE READING
The Unfinished
Poetry"Justice to my words." The unsaid thoughts that bloom feverishly. An ongoing journey of one person's love and her reflections as time passes.
