The Walmart Rose

We made out to Elliott Smith.
Electric blue passion kisses
from a Basement on the Hill.
She was about a minute-thirty shy
of becoming an all-out chain smoker.
Breath full of beer and menthols,
she tasted like Rock N Roll.

By day we were wrecking balls
bulldozing small talk.
At night we became archeologists.
Adorned with hard hats and flashlights
forged from longing and loneliness;
we went searching for our
heart’s forgotten muscle memory.

The great discovery of our time
ended up being her proclivity for lust.
In the pre-dawn soft pink
she uttered a five word confession:
“I’ve been seeing other guys.”

Any anger I felt was afterbirth
to expectation.
I could taste philander
and smell restlessness.

She tried desperately
to project the perfect portrait:
Ruby lips smiling.
Single mom strength shining.
But everybody knows
her Dorian Gray
is weak and wilted.
Like cheap wine
and Walmart roses.

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