Nothing Left to Leave

Remnants of ladybug red from well-dressed lips cluster around words, brilliantly shading the kiss-off kiss, burrowing threads of scarcely equaled antipathy into the creases of gray matter folding in on itself, calling it a day.  There was illusion in our conviction to love until the end of time, vows earnest at first roughened, unkempt, weathered to rust by the constant drip, drip, drip of a tick-tock’s tick.  The love – now as disjointed as a memory behind some reminiscent wallet photo – packed into the guileless pact blossomed, as is the insensibility of beginnings, and the once-upon-a-time hype in which participants participate, suppressing urges of imagistic brilliance, kept turning pages and phrases of someone else’s possibilities into the dash between my dates.


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