Parking Lot Reference

She was young and I was older—I shot her heart with the arrows

I’d been storing away for just such an occasion—and struck one home;

I fell in love; she kept my arrow in her for longer than I thought possible.


Three summers went by, I found:


A healed over vane, left tarnished, corrupted, betrayed

On the ground of a bloody parking lot soaked in vanilla vodka

And lighter fluid, and singed construction paper.


My quiver is empty and I’m a lot older now—I don’t even like shooting my arrows

Anymore—my sorry aim couldn’t breach center mass now with the sharpest of edges.


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