We kept our dreams on the top shelf, with the good liquor, tucked to the back, out of reach, saved for a time to come, saved for someday– but we both knew; each of the days pulled over the shadowy edge, swimming into earth’s arched-spine spinning ecstasy, explodes into her moist middle, tho never impregnating the bitch, never creating more time. She takes, and takes, and takes, until we are wholly spent, until we see the glaring stare of infinity, until we feel its hungering abyss grasp us by the wrists. And I suppose you’d like it if I wrote you a love poem, like I used to do. And I suppose I’d write one, my love, if it’d do either of us any damned good.
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