Downer

Brief romantic encounter. Volatile, but predictable in how it ended.

Brick wall red, waves kissing the jaw
a galaxy of freckles dusted
pale, like my own ghost.

The game, I've already played and lost
when you shyly slide over to me
I feel the intention on my neck.

The bar, Hollywood and Western
cowboy music blaring through my skull
I hear your soft voice on my tongue.

The drink, I nurse in my hands
after you so generously paid
I know how I'll pay for it later.

It's always futile:

the velvety brown jacket I crave,
the room swirls with margarita salt,
the limbs have a treelike authority.

Blood-gloss — corpse-lily, your velveteen furniture.

In the ruby gem-knife afterglow,
it's hard to deny the shock.

Not for the inevitable downer:

No.

But for the early, undeniable:

Pleasure.

French sandwiches, butter-heavy,
pickles tangling with the aftertaste
of regret and not-regret.

When I shift my eyes to yours, and to the memory,
there are no sirens. No blaring surprises.

For your ghost I've met in every young man,
how they like to possess my girlish thrill,
pretending to lace the bones back together.

Yet, the echoes of your fig-sweet lies
still haunt the whispers in my nightmares—
cutting me, perfect.

Pressed into your killer scrapbook.

Brick wall red greets me in my home too,
for you've seen the vintage and broken window arch—

The architecture of you all

living in my sanctuary.