sky's bleeding crimson and bronze,
throat slit open by the sun.
There’s a chill now between my bones.
The places grief goes to nap.
I’m curled in the lounge chair by the pool, hair wet from a shower that was supposed to burn Raymond off my skin.
It only left me raw and clean and pissed.
I’m in a soft two-piece set,
pinot noir dangling from my fingers,
glass half-gone, guitar in my lap.
No sound’s come out of it in over twenty minutes.
I been staring at the sinking skyline view,
still caught in the aftershock of the morning,
still picking thorns out of my skin.
My phone buzzes,
but I hardly register it at first.
Buzz.
Again.
My eyes snap into focus.
I set the glass down,
adjust the guitar,
and lean over,
checking the notification.
And my stomach
just
drops.
Today, 6:12 pm
Andrew:
My shift ends at midnight if you wanna meet me at the clover
n’ if it’s alright / look- it’d be tight if /
ur man stayed at home tho
