Missed Connection

You were sitting beneath a chandelier made of bones. I couldn't make out the shade of your eyes. They must have been purple or the colour of waves just before they crash. I felt the weight of the seven seas which were really just galaxies disguised as the serendipitous moments we respectively mistook for a good time. There is a whole other world beneath your fingertips, the ones that slide gently between women's thighs or smash into the sad buttons of overused pin pads. You're always in such a hurry. You were walking down Hyperion the other night while the streets were empty, feathers jutting out your back. It's Winter in May and I quite love to hate it. You're the type that likes to disappear right when things start to get good, so as to leave on the best note possible. To think of how much more meaningful people's successes would have been had they done the same is to try to find a clean needle on S. Main St. The boys are back together and everyone's in town except it's desolate and nobody gives a damn, but there you are, smiling in the evening wind. As if you planned this from the start. Master architect, traveling salesman, a martyr amongst the desperate, far-from-ragged men of the greater Los Angeles area. Maybe this was a horrible idea. Or maybe it’s perfect.

5/20/19

Filipinotown