There’s a quarter in your pocket,
a place to mourn her lost locket,
the silver heart chain over rusted,
fallen to that sea we once trusted.

In comes the pale man with his stale plan,
his hand like a ghost deceived on the coast;
he has his guitar and you know he’s come far
to spend those coins protected within your *****.

Gladly take your silver linings,
along with all your other findings,
at the bottom of a red purse in your grip.

All a part of the lead curse in your lips.

Like magnets,
we were drawn
in our fragments,
while complex ***
held our best intents,

even if you lost your belief,
despite me being a thief.

The man was me;
a pity you couldn’t see,
although I think you could,
and if not I wish you would.

The powder on my fingers
from the times I lingered
watching your chest move
in your dream groove.

I had to smile
in spite of myself,
all the while spent
and lacking discontent,
as I prowled out the door
and pawned multicolored spawn.

You, my dear, a surrealist;
me, I’m afraid, a realist;
you saw wonder clouds
while I slipped under crowds.

Your quarter fell in the machine
and I dialed a familiar routine,
while you sat by the phone
and continued to be alone.