pavement. Stilettos. Still
in Last Night’s dress.
She breathes. Grasps tight.
The wad of tens they tossed her.
Honk, beep, zoom! Shhh.
It is a nice city, a metropolis
with a dark underbelly.
It is a nice city, flourishing
even in less conspicuous factories.
It is nice enough to promise her food (in fact, not much)
and remits her with fallacious embraces.
Babble, sniff, giggle. Shhh.
A pair of young lovers. A tune of heartbreak.
An emergent smirk.
How long will your love prevail (Christ that suffocates)?
Adolescence at its best.
Go back to school! But wait —
daily faces of the deceased.
Scribble, chatter, slash! Shhh.
That is not nostalgia, that is what drove her
to prefer broken bottles
and cigarette butts and tangled sheets
and post-its found in drawers
trumpeting the words “Call You”.
Tonight? Soon? Maybe? Never.
Sigh. Gasp. Huff. Puff.
This is the easy life she wanted,
don’t be sorry. Don’t cry, Chloe.