Stained Fingers and Bloodied Fists

I reminisce over spilt spirits and half smoked cigarettes snuffed out in their prime like the many words that you held back over the years

Stained finger tips, rough to the touch
A bitter sweet serenade to our last days
The art of compromise never suited my palate, as harsh words roll off my tongue and lap at all the wounds you conceal under veiled laughter and bourbon kisses

Alone in the aftermath of shattered bottles and broken fists, I roll into a tremored rest and sweat out last nights escapades

A violent overture succumbed in hysterics

“no more”

Your tone suggests such blasphemy, an insult to my very being

Three days on a diet of liquor and loathing, your wounds healed well under florescent lights

Between your legs lies my shame, moist to the touch- a wishing well of broken dreams
The splendor of silhouettes thrown against the tattered drywall

In fits we embrace in thrall to the intoxication of wasted days and longer nights, a throwback to happier times
Spent bottles line the battleground of an overturned mattress amok with ash and smouldering with the decadence of abuse
Flailing helpless on a carpet of despair

A shallow husk of what could have been
Your eyes still pretty in the flickering light, tears will flood oceans but could never wash away our love