Ultravoilet Ultravoilence

Six and a half months
since
the fallout, and
we bump into each other in public
like a shitty romantic comedy;

except, there’s nothing romantic about it — she 
averts her eyes, and walks past me three times with eyes on the floor, and
she retreats to another corner of the hookah lounge, and
pretends I don’t exist.

She saw the slit wrists; the schizophrenic madness consumed like cheap absinthe; saw the nightmares, the cold sweats at 3AM, the absence of anchors in kaleidoscopic storms; saw the way I actively battled the passive atmospheric pressure
that weighed me down;
saw the hangman’s chains tightening around my neck
at the speed of anarchic sound.

Honey, loving you felt like putting a stylus on a
vinyl phonograph;
photograph of summer, and we shook the Polaroid until
the endless bummers separated and faded into the past 
like electromagnetism in a 
spectrograph.

We choreographed an eight month dance, and
I watched you pirouette, body like an hourglass, while
the sands
suffocated the bottom half; and

as we fucked the whole thing up
one grain of silicone
at a time,
I observed the impending supernova
like a
scientist.

Honey, loving you
was ultraviolet
ultraviolence,

and I just
want to
talk to you
about those Tarantino movies
again.

Willie Watt
02.03.17 

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