Failblazer

Compartmentalizing strange is
a young man’s game.

There’s no comfort in
cliches this effing
close to middle age.

You can gargle
saltwater to
the sound of a thousand faults,
brushing teeth with asphalt paste;
she don’t ever want to taste
your breath again.

You get thinking about
the men you wanted to be
but all turned out frauds and pill-pushers,
butchers prematurely flaunting cleavers.

And she was a fever,
she was infectious; contaminated breakfasts
after one-night stands
that turned
into seconds and deja
vu thirds I still can’t promise
ever meant more than the first.

You think about the group scenes,
threesomes of
relief that
could have
with been you; monogamy with a
few more added,
turnpikes at pleasure’s
synapses.

Leader of the
ones
that got away,
bare skin magic, mattress of
a thousand outlines-

want to bet she feels the same?

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