The Best I Never (really) Had

Six days
without a poem.

Magnum opus
on the back-burner.

I fucked her over the dresser,
and when I cleaned up the mess
two days later
your old love letter
had surfaced
to the top
of the pile.

Brutal irony,
and I wonder
how many similar escapades you’ve experienced since the flood took our memories away
on rainy day

Surrogate retrograde, and
cries with celestial
as the ultraviolet
assaults a city you no longer frequent.

Frequencies vibrating
at dangerous levels, and
we’re both embracing
the impending
black holes without our bulletproof vests.

I’d wish you the best,
but we’ve
both already
had it.

Willie Watt


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