It’s one of those mornings that welcomes whiskey and soda with open arms.
The Sun and I, more or less, feel the same way about getting out and conquering the world. ‘Well, it’s not our turn today’, we tell ourselves.
The woman I made love to last night is rotting in my bed, her beauty spent, soft breasts gently heaving to the rhythms of a visiting dream.
The woman I love has been missing for a week now. I nailed her picture to the trees in the neighborhood. No, not for the men to build altars and bow down in worship; not for the dogs to howl in heat, or for the women to cry over that angelic face which in secret they loved and envied.
I did not scatter her splendor in the streets for naive, despondent kids to fall in love with her. There was nothing poetic about it at all. I just turned to the authorities for help, like you or any broken-hearted soul would do. Aren’t they the ones who find things we lose? I haven’t heard from them yet.
But the dogs did howl. The women lost hope. And the men brought their dry lips to the sacred ink and scraped a little of her to take home with them.
Seven days later, I sit here by my window, the whiskey holding me. All I see is trees with blank sheet of paper nailed to them. They’ve kissed her face off my memory. The stench of rotting love is filling up this room.