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
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.