Lost

Lost

^{Big Ben counting time. Neruda love in stanzas. The criminal in me, the seconds I cradle the gun about to go off in my hand like a small baby animal. A leap from a nine story} 

^{building. Carjacking youth. The wet streets slick with oil. Thrill beats a rhythm in the bouncing a nervous knee. Homicidal kisses along the way. A comfortable silence}         

^{crushed like coke and snorted into the noses of lives never fulfilled. Intrusion into misled existences can slip in quite comfortably when you’re out step. Quick draw}

^{of a Marlboro. Inhale smoke, blend into the blue haze of the club. Washing up on the shoreline freezing. A bang goes off in my veins that told me they were bulletproof.}

^{The gun is still in my hand and no bullet has exited. I’m just freezing and thinking about time and our apartment and how it was a home for a while, where actually I} 

^{did normally things like made dinner and ate breakfast. The desk where I wrote the empty spaces between our words and scribed the aches when it was far too much}

^{To kiss or speak. I think of Big Ben forever stuck lamenting time and Neruda immortalized in stanzas of timeless love. It must be so hard for them to keep warm, I think,}

^{shivering to keep warm in the cool breeze of timeless mistaken identity, as a poet, who knows something about neither love nor time.}