Con Artist

Nocturnal love,
she’s showing me
her full
and later everything else
until morning,
then it’s as good as
a sweater to charity,
gone and gone.
I want it back;
not the body, the blood sucked away.

You came on like Normandy
and left like Saigon;
I could fire this machine into the night
and not reach a single soul;
just more history between the world
fighting for and against love and losing;
the grassy line of soldiers awaiting,
the sky ablaze raining earth and metal,
and the bar still filled with deader lives.

I was a sentence
and you are a chapter;
what matters now is the book
half-read on the coffee table
as I breathe for the sake of remembering
and lovers look at the sky silently comforted
by the destruction of time
and their own gut-punching ways
because love that lasts is not the love
that gets you through the night.

The Eiffel Tower still a background,
photographs taken as a contract
by people who simply need more time,
the pyramids have gift shops
and glaciers
melt onto a land of ideas
and conflicts forgotten
again and again
while the sea remains a great careless machine
of sex and death.

– Oakland, CA

Taken in Oakland, CA

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