secret motel

I put a face in the wall. I woke up in the brightest carpet. I masturbate over miles of emptiness. I lost my family in the twists and turns of California highways. I wrecked my health on the playgrounds of purgatory. I searched the trees for a hand to hold or a limb to squeeze. First light of day greyed me out in the poem of seasons. I miss you. I miss you so much. You know who you are.

My grandfather drowned and left me the boat. I found myself afloat in a succession of weekends. There are rooftops in the distance. And basements in heaven. My sisters are gone. And the christmas lights persist through August. I chased a grayhound through Lancaster. I polished a quarter in the first light of Tahoe or Reno.

Someone died too soon. You have a face I want to know. The grocery store is closed. But I'm still drinking. I rise long before the barber shop opens.

Why does the sun break my heart every time? And the early morning freeways? And the faded billboards of a forgotten valley? They all break my heart into smaller breakable pieces.

I failed everyone I know and used to know. That's why they went away and why you, too, will go away.

And that's why I will go away. And never come back.