in the mornings when i’d press

my cheek against the pavement,

he’d come by in his suit,

coffee hot, eyes down.

what are you doing?

i’m writing a book, of course.

what kind of book?

the kind with lemongrass and vodka,

with the girl in the yellow dress,

and the boy who’d always wish

she’d finally rip it off.

can i be in it?

oh darling, but you are.

you die in chapter 7,

lips parted,

breaths deep.

so just like every other day,

you leave me writing scars,

inflicting pain across the busy streets

of not so busy lives.

malice once told me

that desperate times

call for desperate measures,

but what’s your excuse

for the harlot and the

cigarettes

in the broom closet?