LOSS
Eric Gilliland
Same tired rain
shattering the light of streetlamps and the cherries of addicts suffering to
burn through the wet winter of our retreat
oil-slick mop with
untamed eyes beneath reflecting the void and the blackness I mourn
saccharine smells
of hot love carried by a breeze between flesh and thought separate tears spared
in our dreams we wake alone together scowling at the cup sucking down smokes
in a cloud of nameless thousands your existence burns color still
