I spill my guts.
am I still a slut?
mixed up hopeless;
a cocktail of whiskey, want,
nostalgia and dumb romance for nada.
the flame and the tv,
muted math and me,
adding up to a broken compass in the night.
humming sweet loneliness,
dripping sauce on a cheap Australian guitar
which rests on my corduroy lap.
I read the air conditioned wind,
blinking silent minutes into my own mayhem,
breaking life into loves.
burning dinner and deliverance,
just as bridges and picture frames,
we all wait in wonder of past and future, no matter.