Poison and Wine

The lyrics linger, fat with the words I cannot speak or even own. Rather than sorrow, I feel sorry in this melted, morning sun. So I melded my dreams, sharp jaws with no escape, now cracked open with crevasses to swim out of, just big enough. The bruises are everywhere, top to bottom, lips to toes--and most importantly of all--the in betweens. I wonder still how swimming pool slides morphed into floods and flights of tears? How bookstores beckoned with coffee-scented sweats, too touched by the salt we could not escape? Driving down New York City streets, locked inside... I see how, in those fresh water pools, kicked the only hopes, the only moments made out of our heads. To forgo fantasy, not feigned but a harsher hopeful than any lived day, permits a feast on a single past, so coldly cast in this gray goodbye.