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This is the part
of the road where
I’ve seen enough to
sometimes decide
I’ve seen too much and
make unimpeachable excuses
for passing things up, say,
being late catching a flight, or
sitting out the next dance.
What’s another seed sown
on the weed-infested garden
of wasted time?
I’ve come to be so eager to
pull out my troops
from the field at the
first sign of danger,
and call it prudence.
Tired of the being alive that
only struggle can accord.
Sick of the same
incomplete conquests,
the same wounds
in the same places
inured by the scent
of uncertainty,
the blood in the snow,
the cold, motionless hands
of another fairy tale
turned gray.

I’ve made an art form
out of moving on. My short-
lived romances decorating
my prevailing solitude
have become
my vainest masterpiece.
My newest habit is
not unpacking my suitcase,
so ready to walk out and forget
at a moment’s notice,
armed with a dozen tried and
tested contingency plans
for a quick escape,
so educated in the necessity
of a heart that wears for clothes
the same winter chill
it needs being clothed away from,

scrying the sun
leafing through the zodiac
and stereotyping
your every movement,
drawing arcane symbols
from your every silence
that would validate my fear
that you will not stay anyway,
so eager to find
a conclusion to jump to,
just to get it over with.

But there is always still
that faint thread of light,
a knob in my heart that holds on
to the lyrics of love songs
above the din of failures that
happened only too many times,
a part that plays the odds,
keeping the lottery ticket
next to her skin and
penetrating the impossibility
of finding something
that lasts.

I hear her crying at night
her eyes glued to the clock
waiting for you
wanting to believe in you
praying you’d come through
before she turns to rags

“Old Louis” by the photographers Saga and Laura of Blonde Guiri


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