Psychic Defense

The moon passes over.

Meeting someone here
at the well-lit corner,
the short end of a one-way.
The price deftly timed.
The night is swelling
like the throbbing headache
of all the insurmountable shit.
Hungry for past tasted heat,
feeling the weight of indecision
in a sweaty palm.

A nip here and there ought to be enough,
but trying to not be forgotten is painful work,
trying to fit evenly into the jagged world is grueling.
Cussing won't cure lonesome, but this will.
Shoot for the mind and it wanders.