Bedbugs IV

Bedbugs IV


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Happening upon a tin rattle with a chance neither you nor I
will make it past November. Who ever finds us adipocere-
soaked will have plenty of stories to tell anyone crazy or
enlightened enough to do what we, at the time, deemed
a good idea. I miss soft, smooth; I miss grins and bright
eyes. We can’t just assume or theorize that your
red patch will fix itself. If I’d known first
names are sewn together maybe she’d be easier
to understand. Twilight violet fractured with light pouring
in through wherever it gains or grasps a foothold. Nameless
on the paper I found at the end of the hall. I wouldn’t go back
there for all the wealth in the world. It’s empty. Planning
to die, or write, in ten year’s time. She’s never going
to smile at me again but I keep mental pictures tacked
to the paint-peeling wall in the back room. This theater
is abandoned. Rust-proof, until you get it home. Making
a crimson example of traffic of thoughts and secretions
into the machine which tastes like emotion, but a
true analysis by this doctor would reveal
who’s truly fractured. Don’t tell me it’s worth saving
first kiss last week when all I want to do is forget it.
The floors, checkerboard tiles cracked and bathed
in peeling paint, no intention of where to go.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-dialed on black rubber cords
-hearing the wind in my ear
-nauseous from your hangover
-talk about it outside
-one tree left
-tickling it
-jagged moods won't help in this town



-Adam
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