Fifteen.

and shaking.

i press a guitar pick

between

my fingertips,

and smile

wearily-

this impulse

is unavoidable

and this, (like so much else)

has to end on

three minor chords.

three melancholy notes.

three more Thursday mornings,

cowering in the pre-dawn silence

that converges mid street.

and when the tears string along

my face like liquid beads,

(i could never wear this necklace)

your edges are smudged.

i,

i can't see you anymore.

(and the truth is: i can't see

anything anymore).

i. will. fade. to. black.