Sundown

Outside the night is calling
like a telemarketer that you never answer
like your ex-lover stored as an expletive
so you’ll remember
you don’t want to remember
what was real
before this.

This is the moment you want to be in;
want to experience that visceral reality of the now;
want to savor the way sweat falls from your forehead
onto the faces you look upon,
or upon you from the giver
of the real. Good.  Lie.

This is the lie you didn’t want to become truth.

Lies are more useful spread eagle;
lying on the table in full Pinterest position
with a ring slipped securely
over your favorite digit.

This is the upload you can download
as fingers press your earlobes
and trace the skin behind
where you hear

Outside the night is calling.

And the curtains you shut
to keep out the truth
let the moonlight peek
and see your purity
stretched
from the tingle in your toes
to your lips breaking open;
greeting the life within you
as you let it leave

You are stuck in the future
when you can’t conceive
the present.

Mistakes are made in folly
but much worse in your absence;
the moon that cuts the curtains
has been hanging in the interim
and will shrug its pallid face
long after you are ash.

Outside the night is calling
but its words are just a gasp.

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