Midnight holds conferences for the most prestige crows.

They all delve into the American Dream at once—

A golden feast dressed in white picket fence armor.

This corpse has been rotting for a century

and some. The smell—

well, it smells familiar, like home.

we always drove right passed them to get home by 2 am;

we put up the windows to ignore the smell—


I wish I had names for all of us;

We only existed.

We always ran strait for the

heroin tracks that trace the outskirts of this city.

like a child coloring outside the lines.


Our problem was that

we ran frantically finding each other without trying to find ourselves first.


We are skipped out on

Shortcuts because the long way around had a burned down cathedral

We all loved to look at and pretend that our prayers at home

Alone were heard.


it was all the same.

Sometimes you would forget what happened the night before;

Most of the time you would forget who the “we” of last night



I’m convinced none of us knew who each of us were.

People were drunk when they came out and

Black out drunk when they left.

It gets a little lonely.


We forgot that we left what we loved

back at the beginning of the bottle—

the first time

along time ago.

I think my boyfriend said something like:

“you’re not drinking tonight, right?”

I took that as a challenge and I said goodbye

to that relationship a while back.

Then before we realized it,

the sun kissed everything away.

Spring was our façade.

we all interpreted how it will end and recited the same elegy every weekend

Passing that damn cathedral.


But all the same,

I go home after all of this to get ready for work the next day

where no one knows I was one of them but they all look awfully familiar.

I always feel lucky enough though,

Lucky that I get to go home, lucky that I can wake up and look at the man

That I know as love,

Even with

those empty bedrooms.


Until next time; always looking to next time; for next time to be that time

When the most prestige crows discuss over the golden feast that is our corpses.

to know that we have been rotting for centuries on

this naked highway.




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