and shaking.

i press a guitar pick


my fingertips,

and smile


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 can't see you anymore.

(and the truth is: i can't see

anything anymore).

i. will. fade. to. black.