Chronic

"That's life."

Such a redundant phrase, I lick
it as i turn it over and over in
my mouth. The syllables always taste
the same.

She wasn't God's angel, was no
damsel in distress, coal-black hair.
She looked at me and through the smoke
I could see the sadness hinting in her eyes.

I try to convince myself it will be okay,
wiping the wetness from her face as I choke
back my own tears. The scent of Clorox
toxins smother me. I gag, losing consciousness.

I think back onto the day: the gray sky,
like dull clay, molded with the hands of a
clumsy child. We sat in the shade, inking
angst and rebellion into the dead trees.

We talk about men. Men who dye their hair blond,
men who wear studded belts, men
with mental disorders (OCD, mania).
We flick them away like lint off cashmere.

We share a bottle of mountain dew
and lean against the snarling fire, spitting
sunflower seeds into the flames.

And God -
it's those little moments,
the casual conversations,
the secrets and the laughter,

that I yearn to feel again.