Not so Black and White

Only today
you realized you are drowning
in this mess
of an apartment
with linoleum you hate
and a too-small balcony
you dream of
leaping from;
and this mess of
a marriage
inhabited now
only by malignant silence.

You get by on
slow-motion love,
like shutter clicks
in your mind
she beckons you closer
and offers you
escape – euphoria
and explains
that it feels like
she imagines
the afterlife would.

Pure white powder
(like on mountain tops)
is a side-effect of
the drug –
that tick-tocking rhythm
of pain just behind
your left eye
and fat onion tears
pouring out
over dinner.

You fight to breathe
or fight
just for the hell of
feeling passionate
about something
while some poor sap
a love letter
that will never be answered.


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