A discarded bottle pleads
For anguished fingers
To embrace its slender neck
And she does again and again
Unable to spare herself the consequence
Of what has become a daily ablution.
Her pale voice, hoarse and scripturient
Rises up with an onslaught of tears
None of which can be precisely named.
Misery does not always justify its cause
And is not more often a case of familiarity?
A callused tongue serrates her deviations
She would speak of the panic
The weltering heart that nips
At her left wrist every time
She buttons the cuff of her sleeve
But he will not hear of such matters
The banalities of an urban mythos
Because she does not speak plainly
When drunk and all he ever hears
Of her thoughts is the regurgitation.
Iconography is not synonymous with love
It is the fate of everyone to die alone
There is nothing grisly or convoluted
In the ways of nature even if the ways of man
Would declare it so and pervert its truths.
He loves her in this precise moment
For it is only this that can be guaranteed
But still she cradles the withered umbilicus.
How is it that no one ever loved me before?
How could anyone love this lesser version?
He counts her virtues
More than can be accommodated
By two hands but the how and the why
Evade even his most ardent replies.