Oh no, she is fired up
raging for the reckless dream
a future to plunge into memory
a bloody prom, a first kiss.
The nothings that are left
are spewing like dust
dripping down a skyline.
She is bitching for the itch
of the imaginary better.
Oh more, where are you
you wild excess like butter
lip gloss after a bag of popcorn?
Long drive to think of it all.
Long drive to keep desperation
for the new word I haven't learned
to pronounce. New, brand-spanking-new.
