(Her)

Fuck, can I miss
Her.
Sure, peace
support
care
sex and
all the other masculine platitudes,
really more than any fella-
let alone one beset by
this
affliction could ever ask for- in this indifferent place
at that.
 
 
Though I should say
I partake of the fruits
begat of
this, wretched gift, an improper  
fraction—
Astute. Aimless, Agony
—bittersweet as it is,
enables me to miss
the little things, too.
I miss the blood-red twilight sun
licking the horizon through
The window of that commandeered
corner-suite.
crescendoing to prominence from the floor before
diffusing across her hair,
bathing with her complexion and
radiating outward in a passive, elegant display of defiance against
this cruel,
entropic existence.
something of me is aroused in (Her) civil disobedience to the rules of
the game,
an urge to dance,
a call to call in sick,
a beckoning whisper to the
prematurely jaded heart of a
rebel,
divested of his revolution
–coaxing tacitly to take her hand
As if to venture spontaneously from the familiar streets of banality
through winding side alleys
down cracks and crevices in concrete monstrosities to a destination unknown.
barely
remembering
to first cast down the toils of this
brief, drawn-out existence
before my feet– setting off to the above mentioned with boyish abandon.
 
 
Problem is,
toils
are still there when I get back.
 
 
So, down that long and lonesome road
–Wherever I go
Just Know,
Not a moment goes by that all of me isn't yearning to see (Her)
—my next red sunset.