You’ve gone
and shacked up with
the moon. You spend
your nights listening to
it play its stupid song on
the piano, and spilling
wine on Cassiopeia.
Truth be told (please)
on those nights when
you come to me
in lieu of sleep,
saying something to
the effect of "Let's get
a bottle and
drink alone tonight,"
I do imagine
how pretty you
would look
with your hair
wrapped around your neck
like a scarf or
necklace
laying
like a princess strung
out across diamonds.
But really, I don’t have
the stomach for
drinking anymore,
and (if
you must know)
I’ve dreamt of a life
on a floor in a blanket
with you.
I’m halfway
there.
Ashley to ashes.
Dope to dust.
I don’t even like
music anymore,
I just want to hear
harmonicas cough.
Ain’t it just like the night,
To be gone by
the time you wake up?
Peace,
Bitch.
