Meeting the Straight Edge
12 days later…
a song, words wrapped
innocently around your innocent finger.
A promise ring.
A reminder to keep in touch ring, tied
in a little bow of smoke.
It rings, ringing true.
More lines making no sense,
and I can barely squeeze my words in
between your opaque
puffs
of smoke.
You feel the cannabis, you say.
I am old and cracked.
I can’t stop myself.
I just can’t stop myself
from turning you down.
Your turn, you say.
The bow grows that much tighter.
Your smoke chokes
with or without my assent.
I push it away.
12 days later
and I’m still
here with you.
Your regrets, hanging on
my shoulders
like barrels of speckled apples
in the autumn we are missing.
Your philosophy,
stale like the residue of drugs
parties
and violent lovers.
Rotting walls.
Please choose your high over me
and let me go.
a song, words wrapped
innocently around your innocent finger.
A promise ring.
A reminder to keep in touch ring, tied
in a little bow of smoke.
It rings, ringing true.
More lines making no sense,
and I can barely squeeze my words in
between your opaque
puffs
of smoke.
You feel the cannabis, you say.
I am old and cracked.
I can’t stop myself.
I just can’t stop myself
from turning you down.
Your turn, you say.
The bow grows that much tighter.
Your smoke chokes
with or without my assent.
I push it away.
12 days later
and I’m still
here with you.
Your regrets, hanging on
my shoulders
like barrels of speckled apples
in the autumn we are missing.
Your philosophy,
stale like the residue of drugs
parties
and violent lovers.
Rotting walls.
Please choose your high over me
and let me go.