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Grave
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Lauren Black
Wafts of vanilla bean and cheap salon hairspray,
sandwich shop charm
plaid shirted comfortable,
lest we forget exhausted eyes.
My watch, two years slow,
couldn’t have predicted a looming elephant
in a whitewashed room full of straight-jackets.
Whistle jerked eyelid,
simple stroke of hand.
“I’ll give it all up for you,”
and his eyes were wilted, and it wasn’t enough.
Pain almost palpable.
The scruff that screamed insomnia,
the toes that stuck to soles,
the love that missed the train,
that quiet, crooked smirk
screaming “I’ll go to the grave with this.”
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