Cliché:
hotel room and a bottle,
a bad watercolor covering a cluster
of bullet holes, ice bucket on the floor,
tossed bed. Bad luck is my home
and I am right at home here.
The
stirring starts with emptiness,
glass spinning on the carpet,
deciding which of these fucking
ghosts is supposed to kiss me.
I can't stand the chorale of
howling hounds in the distance,
and it doesn't matter that they miss me.
Heavy
foot on the accelerator,
heavy eyes finding darkness,
the highway becomes white
tears dropping as fast as the car will go.
The
radio murmurs your name
in the static between stations,
in the static between state lines,
whispers where you are,
assures me that if I drive fast enough
you'll be on your way home.
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