And Nothing Stretched Past the Parking Lot


My experience comes of street lamps: the night-lites of the street.

I stride the shoulder, thinking of the girls hiding amongst those beams.

Drag a finger close to the narrative and see the nimble follow behind it—

nothing as bright (no, no). It is haunted peripheral visions; I fashioned you once

off the road I grew up on—took you to prom; you kissed me on the open mouth

before leaving forever, which was your right, as I would have told you to do.

A college girl named Savannah lives in the pit in me that I just call Savanna for short; I spiral the cigarette in between my fingers and think of first love—bend the words to my will. I wish she’d have seen it then. You might have loved to know how I touched a sliver of you from afar and watched the shudder spread from your wrist up to your arm. You would have kissed my shoulder blade to stop the spread, if you could do it again; I bet you would, if you could, as I would have told you to do so.

I bled myself of the attempt; as I walked across the yard. The air was crisp and cold; you were never closer to my heart, my thoughts; you were my life on the line. I remember walking across the prison yard…cold and expectant…thinking of you…loving you…as much as I could. I knew I could call you at six in the morning—and I often did—and you would answer. Sleepily, you’d answer, tell me all was well from your warm—far from my cold; you knew you’d be fine with whatever path you took, which was your right—as I, with time, would have told you so.

I needed your voice more than anything. Stealing books from the prison library, I remember walking into the pen with nothing but last thoughts and memories of your voice on my tongue.

Worked to the roof of my mouth like new sore, and over it I went. Of my heart to your love, you knew I couldn’t help but see the Break take its stage. Anxious for your word, for your breath, blueberry coffee brewing (fucking shots)—hearing no sound, and everything was equated to grocery store aisles and bagging stations once—where nothing stretched past the parking lots.

As, with much-given time,

from my seated toil as ply,

I would have told you so,

as is my required low ‘n sty.


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