(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)
But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.
It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.
She’s the waves under my boat
and if she stays
and if she wails
she’ll drown my sails
with her nails
at my throat.
We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.
The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.
If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.
Art By Leonid Afremov