Goddamn you, florescence.
Basting my eyes with such artificial glaze.
I knew better than to answer the sirens
shrilling, shilling some breathless lies
of a new dawn, a new fawn to fawn
over
and
over.
It’s last night I cling to,
much like the Old Style bottle
sweating the last of its swill out
onto my fingertips,
fingers spent brushing my salt and peppery
hair out of my “blushing blue” eyes, as you told me.
I don’t get how blue can blush, honestly,
but I didn’t care, you could’ve sold me
the deed to someone else’s car and I
would’ve crashed that windshield on cue
for you.
I’m staring at the last bits of five o’clock,
spilling down my sink drain,
a few specks of brick red lipstick spattered
on the flecks of stiff stubble.
I turn the sink on, watch the last remnants of a night
drip
d
o
w
n
the drain.
For a moment, I linger over the scent of a freshly shaved face
and the hint of thick perfume
and just take myself in the mirror.
You coulda been a star, pally.
You coulda had it all.
You coulda had her.
But those beer bottles, they sweat.
And here we stand, alone again.
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