Three Hundred Plus Days

Our heads, cocked to one side,
 leaves a peculiar reflection.
Three hundred-plus days,
 I have seen.
Horsehair mattress stuffed,
 with receipts from the vile
things that brought me joy.

Today, is the end.
I will no longer slice hemlock,
  to steep in my tea
Milk thistle, ground to perfection
snorted through nasal passages
riddled,  with holes
I  will miss

Three hundred-plus days,  
come new morrow
I ready myself with a strong
shot,  of  diesel fuel

No promises, I  don't make
promises those, are foul lies

Staples and sutures, create
 a fresh new design on my skull
Patterned after the day we met,
some years past

The days when needles rained
down from a red sky
Aligned to puncture dreams,
 still unclear
Without clothespins, I hung
 them up, to watch vultures
pull the hearts out, of every one

With you on my back, we
 gather epithelial crust
Freeze-dried, stitched, to form
 a piebald memory of
the future

Now,
We are here,  looking at
ourselves nothing more than
dispensed opiates
Holding on, our hands like
barbed claws
We wipe away our tears
with tissue paper of
 a pretty color

Race
Each other to the top of
 the purple mountain with it's
vibrant green alluvial teasing
 mirages look like us only happy

Hold tight the leather straps
that cord us as one as we
 slip over the boundary to sail
into new days
 with old ways thinking
will you still love us come
new morrow