The impossibility of turning back
to that street
a blank space without your face
my parents house and the picket fence,
lie, we never had one, we did however stuck to appearances,
tick TOC,
seasons greetings and never complained
about seeing his eyes turn wild by the sight of her
the nuances of self destruction
habits ready made
bound to bleach
a restless soul,
a crier
an empath
whatever works
little more
than a variation
in hormones or lack of understanding
lunacy, I didn’t mind the gap,
instead
why we can’t go back
even if there is enough
to drink
to soothe
or drown
to swallow, snort
(and even enlighten)
our sorrows
we have it all, the so called love,
the cherry past Sunday
to laugh amidst the field of dying lilies
us
of one more week past thirty,
near the void
us
to dance untampered
us
calling out loud for an angel
send me optimism
or
a kiss goodbye.