a last dance
at last

the dark fills my eyes
as I walk away
into the night

I don’t glance back
into the stench
but instead

fill my lungs
with the night’s
****** air

my jumbled steps
and stumbled words
are relentless

infuriating
unshakable

invigorating

another day
another drink
alone.

Everything is spewing
Out of you like frothy
Beer
Bearing nothing
And sparing taste

Fermenting and brewing
Through all of these
Years
Yearning insignificance
And lacking grace

my mind encircles thoughts
of our entangled hearts

and juxtaposed lives

who you were
what I tried to be
when we began
where it stopped
why it started
and o, how we came

but an autopsy

of my words
couldn’t even reveal

the cause
of this one

so it’s just another night

lost

to understatements
and repression

I need to write a poem.

We were two introverts
surrounded by an infestation
of the dipsomania and delight.
Ingested by white noise,
flashing lights
and sin,
we stood sheltered behind conservatism
and our cocktails.
This technophonic cave
was crammed with lascivious men
modeling their lavish kicks and threads
in pursuit of non-commitment.
With our backs pressed firmly
against our salutary wall,
we felt inviolable.

But then, you turned to me.

Your chandelier earrings exploded
the luminescence and trepidation
into a million particles,
and through the deafening roar
of pandemonium and decadence,
you offered a wink and said,
“Let’s dance.”

I remember mornings at your house,
sunshine pouring over me through the floral drapes,
forcing me to scrunch my to return to darkness.
Then, the sweet smells hit my nose
and my eyes were wide open.
Sizzling, frying, and your humming hit my ears.

I pulled myself out of bed
that I had so carefully been tucked in to,
and I made my way into the kitchen.

There you stood, with such poise,
Moving with sixty-five years of grace
through steam and grease.  
You swayed around the stove,
Danced from *** to pan,
armed with a fork in your left hand
and a spatula in your right.

You turned and saw me there, in the doorway,
both of us smiling.  
We shared our good mornings
and you poured a tall glass of milk
for me.  

I sat, waiting, watching
you spin around the kitchen,
stirring, scrambling, flipping,
with such purpose that the sweat
on your forehead went unnoticed.

You filled my plate with pancakes, eggs, and bacon;
golden brown, scrambled, and crispy,
the way I like it.
You didn’t eat.  
Only sipped your coffee and smiled.

Now, here I’m standing,
fumbling, burning and cursing,
Preparing bacon and eggs
over my cheap electric stove,
and I’m barely beginning to understand
the reasons your breakfast tasted so good.

A different kind of cold settled
in them as they poured through the door
into the bleak grandiosity of the lobby.

A group of grievers:
Her ashen husband and their two daughters, 12 and 20,
Her two sisters dressed in black fleece
and Her mother with freshly bruised knees.

The night was agonizingly short once they arrived.
Prayer and hope for rehabilitation
between questions about resuscitation.
Her mother clung to the cruel Almighty
While Her husband clenched his fists at the chaplain.

A Stroke of an instant induced a transformation of lives
as Hers ended beneath the blinding fluorescence.

Each night I lie here beside you
Looking at your **** pale skin,
Flawless against the scarlet sheets,
My palm tracing the angles of your body
That is so closely nestled into mine
I can feel each breath as if it were my own.

Each night, as I softly rest my lips
On the nape of your neck,
Caress the side of your face
With the back of my fingers,
And Whisper I love you's only loud
Enough for me to hear,

I find myself wondering if she
Could take your place.