There was time in between
the ferns and the short story
collections but the fingers
failed and the grasp died
like grapes on the vine.
In fleeting affections she
turned a head and set fire
to a thousand hearts and
none more broken than
the ones she'd left behind.
Have a drink on me, my friend,
the old men with hollow cheeks
cry to the young man with
his pink cheeks and intentions.
Hold fast to the line, men.
You'll get burned but
tomorrow never dies.
She kissed the lobe of my ear
and smelled of flowers and
sweet cream and a little
of decay.
Swallow the pain and lies
and tuck in the corners under
the mattress and tarnish
the reputation you built
when you hang out to dry.
Lay here with me, she mewled
like a cat as she patted the
bedspread next to her,
Lay here with me, love.
Tomorrow is so far away
and I hate to be alone.
Crickets met the setting sun
as they hoped Tomorrow
would never come.