Here we are on this river to nowhere.
Let's play some pickup at fifty-two.
You've stacked your deck with royalty on top,
drawn eyes like blinds to avoid a flop.

Our cold feet shuffled at our own
too convenient sleights of hand,
forgetting miles frequently flown
and lines traced in foreign sand.

You put my numbers in order,
you flushed me straight.
Love the game, hate the mistakes.
No fate. My hand, only I create.

Cross those streets and don't hold back
'cause the grip, it always was slipping,
our ride forever losing traction.
Lights, camera, retraction.

Fated cards cast me in shades.
Did my glances drown you with shadow,
or was your darkness always there, too?
At least we dig each other's grave.

Burn a sturdy bridge to play solitaire.
Scurry away, spider! Hurry!
Our cobwebs are too tangled.
Go fish, then play war.

Pitch me into the crash.
I'll squirm against the glass
like somber, dying cigarette ash.
You'll miss me no more.

Happy families, Hollywood garbage,
the rabbit's year versus well-cleaved clover.
Send me back my decency, please.
This tarot honeymoon's finally over.

You've held us all in spades,
so let's call it what it is:
I was the jack of diamonds,
and you'll always be
queen of hearts.

-Luke Rounda