the bland colour
in her face makes
the sepia nostalgia
of the other heartaches
as powerful as the
romances themselves.
each direction
takes me new ways
to the same place
where I pause
and consider
my spotless clothes
and what that betrays
about this road
Stuttering breath
firing between words
tell me everything
while the eyes tell me nothing,
because they stare
right through me.
And so I withdraw, I relent,
carrying that shudder
on my back, exiled
with my virus
to this old place
that makes ironic echoes
of the sweet and sad wiles
that used to feel virtuous.
their faces twitch
when they lie
like a bad tell
in a card game
and so I should win
but even their
most shameless bluffs
beat sincere plays
My veins darken with the ink
that strangles the blood
to a slow molasses drip
that drains this young flood
onto my devils’ fingertips
and never are they more alive
than when a song of black bile
pools on my tongue.
Whirlpool of Crows 