The Letter

It’s four in the evening, the end of October.
I’m writing you back.  I hope that you’re sober.
The desert is hot, but I’ve got a cold heart.
Who’d guess that a pixie could peel us apart.
I hear you stay hammered upstairs in Manhattan.
Jane sends me her selfies in fishnet and satin.

Yeah, and she snorts all of your coke by the sink,
wearing the coat that you tore
the night you had too much to drink,
and you slept on the floor.

The last time I saw her, we made love in Boulder,
nude on the lift.  She said New York was colder.
I gave her a gift that she wrapped up in plastic.
She said you flipped out; lost your head in a basket.
She mentioned I stole her like a rose from a vendor,
her heart on my shelf and your balls in a blender.

Well, I saw her blades spinning
right from the beginning,
Well, your woman’s awake,
no use in pretending.

She said I was just a mistake.
A part of you died when she slipped me inside,
and the furniture started to quake.
The noise had a razorblade clink
on the floor by the door in the coat that you tore
that night you had too much to drink.
Yeah, she snorts all your coke by the sink.

Sincerely…