I wish to leave you with this—
the passionate preamble of a post-pubescent
rabble-rouser with red ringlet
curls, cascades of casual
looks looming through the locks
that hide her harrowed hands
gripping the sides of her face.

"You, young lover
you, angel in the dark stage
you, wanting woman
waiting while we wash
our hands of this mess
of living breathing beauty.
You are me
and I am falling asleep at the wheel."

She sheds, shines
careless crimson
over the outside door,
twisting the tight tendons
of her frustrated neck,
spine spinning, swindling,
trying to trick me into saying,
"I will, I do."
I don't. I wont.

Her hand holding hands
lays latent in loud laughs
dies in the demon drunk night.