No. 18

I sit and I stare at a girl named Sinclair with a sight so dull, and a heart just as cold.

Her eyeliner was smudged by the imagery she had seen, life, swept back at the speed of pain.

She had chipped bitten nails, and a broken nose with a bruised up lip as red as her dress.

Ripped up stockings and a torn up bra is what she wore, a frivolous attempt to stand out from the rest of these whores.

Would she have allowed me to blush your bruises and cover your cuts?

Would she have known of my lust, had I undressed her with more than a touch?

Would our love have risen higher than heaven, and our desires fallen, lower than hell?

Would our passionate sweat flood the canyons of our bed, and could she have given me more than just a one night stand?

I suppose not, for it flows and it shows, down the drain, beyond the crevasses of our thoughts, the dreams that will rot.

Sadly enough, the time is now one, and a mortician is not paid to admire the dead.