She lived things I could only imagine; we were mad
about each other, mad in lust, mad angry. Mad. Period.
We made love in her car, wrecked mine, made out at
funerals, fucked against a bathroom wall in The Cove.
Never wanted anyone else and couldn’t live without
blowing it up; told her I’m a man without purpose
baby, a boy looking for a chance encounter; forever
confusing honesty with cruelty.
We played Russian Roulette with her father’s gun,
a former cop, ex-marine. I said sackcloth and ashes
would flatter her figure and she’d make a beautiful
train wreck for someone.
Last time we talked she said I’ll never let you go,
I knew it wasn’t true. She’s a liar, a sometime witch,
a damaged goods collector. Everything has its sell
-by-date; we cling to faith, pretend it will be enough.