The unanswered phone calls,
the unopened mail,
the half pack of cigarettes,
all witnessed the tale.

The half eaten sandwich,
the fully drunk scotch,
the out of date calendar,
the unticking watch.

The smell of stale sweat,
and the stains on the sheet.
The small empty bottle,
the drug store receipt.

This is the story,
of the unshaven guy,
alone in the bedroom,
escaping the lie.

art and famine go well together,
because every taste of
beauty
only ever makes me hungrier, thirstier,
and I swallow every drop
until my withered heart finally
and gracefully
abandons its tired post,
gives up on its lifelong work,
lies silent and unticking under the broken constellations
that it never could fathom.