MOTEL6
The pause in the dialogue.
Promises made of paste.
How did you come to me?
I lied to your face,
which broke open anyway,
slats of neon falling across
features I no longer recall.
Promises made of paste.
How did you come to me?
I lied to your face,
which broke open anyway,
slats of neon falling across
features I no longer recall.
It’s the Vacancy sign
that stays with me, its molten
landscape with the current
shorted out. On a map of dark
topographies, that sign
burrowed into my loneliness
with its prophecy.
No comments:
Post a Comment