She is prodigal in her compassion, sneaking up behind
me just to make my day with a cry of ‘surprise’ or something
of that ilk.
We don’t go together well, like polyester and silk
draped over some dipshit king in traditional ugly fashion.
Sundays painted over with rain make me want to rewind.
Back in some old house I fought for casual times in your presence
but I can’t keep cards close to my chest and I fear I was less than opaque.
There’s been a break since I’ve been in front of a camera. I’m out of money.
I smoke mostly resin
these days. Black tar-like shit in the bottom of bowls and inside glass pipes
gets lit up, smoked up. You make me want to not give-up when I see you promoting
yourself, your brand. Your favorite band is playing the city soon. Maybe I can swing
a ticket, and maybe you’ll be there, and I’ll nonchalantly wave, and keep debonair
throughout the night, past sobriety, and we can slide into a sticky summer
messiness we never quite got the chance to find before.
Sundays stay getting painted over with rain, let’s get naked in the evening,
stay naked in the morning, and let’s see what we find now.