Heart-Pressed Pill

You know it takes no
skill to swallow
the little heart pressed pills killing
time on window sills;

resisting the high,
refuting your fix, ain’t concilatory.

It’s
boring like
the girls next door who grew up whores in Daddy’s eyes.

There’s no story left to
time passing,

the muscles of many decades spasming
until resignation’s reached.

Dancing to dysphoria gets old, the music less familiar, the all night lights a phantom of young feats.

You stop looking for the smile in people’s teeth, idealism in the hand you hold to help

fall asleep.

Sure, you told certain truths about kisses
below the belt,
walking in such a way my
pain would least be
felt.
But my steps were
rarely parallel to normal, and those quarrels feel
petty in
retrospect.

Heart-pressed pills are all that’s
left of me, part of a set I could not

bother to reunite.

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