The curve of her spine bent
along subway lines. The only thing
that makes sense is to lie down
on the sidewalk right now.
Beer can crushed & tossed across
the street. We're not going to make it.
For an entire summer my life's
solution was to not leave
my bed. A thousand miles later
& I still want something else.
Shifty and shifting away from the center.
It's clear now: we were never
going to make it. The darkness creeps
over, smears in the rain. The end
of the night means leaving the bar.
Myself keeping myself in check.
Sometimes I want to go back
& do things differently
but this is one fuck-up I can't take
back. Pink Moon. Pink Moon. Pink Moon. Pink Moon.
Hit play again. Lying in bed, feeling
the darkness creep over.
Let the weird back in. Find a point
in the distance, fast and furious,
something worth racing off to.
I'm looking for something new,
something catchy, something
to fall asleep to.
New York, late September,
felt as though it were summer.
I remember you walking your bike
along Ludlow, and later in the cab
our knees touching. I forgot
my lucky handkerchief. I forgot
what I meant to remember.
Earlier that day, Coney Island.
Sitting on the boardwalk watching
the waves come in. The slight
removal of the camera lens
and the bar. There was always
something coming between.
Sunday night, blurred lights.
I tried to make a picture for you
so you could see it like I see it.
My handkerchief wasn't really
lucky anyway. So pour me
another drink & tattoo another
skull on your arm. I remember
what I meant to remember:
the end was already written
in the beginning.
Gina Myers lives in Saginaw, Michigan, where she makes books for Lame House Press. Her most recent chapbook is Behind the R from ypolita press, and her first full length collection, A Model Year, will be published by Coconut Books later this year.