burst as I careen out
of your hotel bed
As if I could of sewed
myself to white sheets
still pretending that I
never loved you.
Moon-
knowing these wars were
to sometime end and the
riot dreams cease and my
white flag waving as I climb
into another cab again. Your
lips dissipating in my backseat
soul.
This time we cut the
life support, this time we
declare ourselves dirty
broken things.
I turn the sun off.
Calling truce.