i was never
properly wired
to understand the difference
between wrong and write.
and so I left.
lovers on bridges
often fasten their locks.
then throw the keys
out to the incoming tide.
our captivity
was a different variety—
the only skeleton
thrown out was me.
i watched her,
watching me,
in black and white.
because
we dyed together
in the colours.
and could never seem
to get the palette
quite right.
just a smeared mess
of pigment,
bleeding into Indiana canvas.
the crooked one she kept,
still hanging on the wall.
when once—
she hung on the words.
there was a time
when she found the edges
of my language soft—
the idea of that
made me hard.
she thought the burns
on my arm were beautiful.
but that admiration
made me nervous.
because we couldn’t both
love the tragedy—
someone had to be
the fucking hero.
villain or literary vigilante,
labels never mattered.
because the sin was the same.
the one born flawed,
in that first blush
of a Wayne’s City kiss.
moments often melt
into memories;
movement rarely bends
itself back into truth.
we were destined
only for collapse,
falling dirty
amongst hollow angels.
the ones screaming out
that unanswered
517 call.
