Rian Love April 2019
The cream in my coffee swirls,
I feel the heat from my cup as I sip,
Looking blindly upon her as she spoke.
Just last night,
I worshipped at her altar
A disheveled prophet
Mad with desire and delusion
Lying prone at her feet
Searching for forgiveness.
Another temple built of bed linens and desperation
Lies in ruins a hundred feet away
No different than any other night
Pining for some absent father
To save us from ourselves and each other
As we fuck through our years
Of poor decisions,
Tobacco stained finger tips
Tracing canyons carved by rivers of tears.
I know her name, but not much else
Of this wilted rose.
In the end, it is of no consequence.
She loved the way my words dripped,
Like honey from a dilapidated oil drum
And I loved the way her legs,
Willowy and silken,
Slithered up through her black pantyhose
To the hem of her dress,
Subtly hinting at the bloom
Hidden beneath the cotton of her underwear.
It was all the excuse we needed
To escape that shitty bar
And disappear into our most carnal nature
For God knows how long.
Here in the light of morning, it all seems so far away.
Some forgotten dream of yesteryear.
There’s a knock at the door,
She gets up and peers through the peephole,
Her once pert ass now slightly sinking
Into a pair of stained sweatpants
Resembling a Pollock painting.
She announces her sister is at the door,
I know the truth
God has come to call us home
But I need a stiff drink
Not a hallelujah
Artwork: In Bed, The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 1892