Mirage.

port wine in plastic cups.

As we sit under the blistering sun,
I relax my feet into the dried green grass to feel the ground,
My friend says sometimes we need to feel the earth,
Even if we get blisters in our feet.
Maybe she is right.
We bruise and break at times
To know that we're capable enough to have fault lines
To feel sore after we have felt nothing for a long time.
Ants nibble around my toes,
As I ash my cigarettes.
And they hurry forward to
inspect the grey specks of
burnt paper
I wonder if they mistaken it for snow,
Like we mistake snow to be
Beautiful, but every time
it nips our noses and we
try to grab a fistful, it melts.
As does our wonder and we're left with blue fingers
And frost bite.
Reminding me of the absence of your hands, and how I used to cling to it,
Hoping I wouldn't melt into the background of a world
which is too sad for me to
believe in.
Blues feel like a lot like you,
As does my lukewarm glass of whiskey which I hesitate to finish as songs end on the radio.
My friend and I we used to
Listen to the radio and get drunk on our incessantly salty tears,
Nowadays we don't even listen to each other because
we are silent,
Unless we're laughing at our misery and yours too.
Love feels like a lot like you,
And I don't know, if I want to feel this way anymore.
So, we look away,
us, old friends,
sickeningly familiar horizons
With sickening absence.
Maybe we will find our voices in the cacophony of trial and error and rejection and things we aren't ready for yet,
until then,
we blow on our already watered down coffee,
and smile a little
As we look away, old friend.
So we drink,
Port wine in plastic cups,
glass bulbs aestheticize
my yellow loneliness.
I laugh when they ask me,
How long has it been my dear?
A month, a year, a week?
Twenty four hours, make a day.
When did it happen?
Yesterday?
Today?
Everyday.
I live in the phone call,
In the pleading conversations.
In the adamant denial
of acknowledgement.
So, I'm left to sip
Port wine in plastic cups.
In the fear of chewing
The glass and slicing my lips.
But, plastic too
lives longer.
Blood, the red of my
plastic lipstick,
An open wound
Of human error.
An open wound,
My human error.
I am still sore.