She Lacked Spirit

West Meadow Street, ‘99


It made sense at the time:

she praised me on my poised demeanor,

beside the asphalt. I stood unyielding by the

streetlights, on Meadow, for many nights,

walking till my heels bled.


Shoes full of gore and

squealing with my every step; the context of lost

descants; the shrug of a shoulder; the making of a

war wound, placed in my own head. I gained while

I held her (only). I hated our rehearsal; I hated how

often she made me wince, just speaking what it was.


She lacked spirit.


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