Shit and Champagne

Broken bones under a leaden pallet

Under the shivering night’s curtain led me along

Down the chalk sidewalk

Into this spotty existence that came about when I met you

My spot is in the windowsill on the fourth floor

And below you stand and stare

Wondering what I’ll do,

If I’ll do.

And the crimson boiled skin from a night of five dollar beers

And ass grabbing—smacks

Still doesn’t make you think,

I want you to stop feeling.
I want to stop feeling.

“Naivete” you say, you said, you’ll say

I can see it in your eyes through the dark,

As your pores and teeth and perfection absorb me.

Now, Penelope,

Spotty vision taps my spine and tells it to spill

And I can almost see your face covered with specs of gray  and red

“You’re shit, I’m champagne.”
Period.
Exclamation?
No, period.

This leap of faith from the window sill was destined for the cyclical

Will you catch me one coffee date?
One afternoon at the beach, one internet moment, one hijacked plane?

Spinal tap, spotty boiling, red, gray

Gray gray gray

Filling the crevices of fingernails and eye-sockets and...
no time to see your skin,
you step back,
Nostalgia for the window sill moment.

Feeling, a life.