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Camille Ward - SINDAY
This is what happens,
listening to untruths in the hot street,
your cigarette ash feathers in the gutter.
We march onward, members of the French Foreign
Legion, and enemies, one to the other.
A bird's nest of hair chokes, gags me to the sagging
sheets and faraway disappearances on the balcony
when I think the event an unoccurrence.
Must you come inside tonight?
How many other times I've wished your fingers twisted
in mine,
your admiration, your lust.
One second, blind and crime scene to be tampered
with, bottles clink in reunion on balcony, cigarette
butts and trail of the underworld, a scent of
goosebumps on thighs and smoky trail of black cap
stuck in the bed cover.
Truths and untruths,
your past parallels my present state,
a liar smoking on the surface of reality.
An object, used, the "for rent" sign lies on the balcony.
I have morphed into the unavoidable,
the state of the slug drowning in
a hot drug,
triangle of tears.
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