That house on Halstead,
with its rod-iron rusted gate,
that creaks eerily and groans when pushed aside,
looks abandoned.

Sparse lemons splayed the patches of dead earth where nothing grows, while ants playfully dance on their yellow-grey skins.

Your 1980s Kawasaki vibrating beneath us,
I'm holding you tightly as we rock back and forth on your driveway.
And we are heading nowhere. I know this, but I don't care.

I gaze at you in the circular side view mirror,
donning bed head, and your dusty clothes that moments before lingered on your bedroom floor. Arms still grasping you.
But right now, you don't see me. You never really did.
I catch a glimpse of myself, sullen lustful eyes and wild raven tresses.

You tore me apart piece by piece, my ego bruised like the dried out lemon husks we sometimes would pick up and squeeze juice from for our tea.