A quiet leap toward washed-out purity, over rain puddles
and over napkins with numbers being swept into street gutters.
Haven't seen her in years; we'll meet tomorrow and reminisce over beers,
and all the dark ceilings I've lied to, saying, "I wish she was here",
will smile if I hold her hand to a druggy climax, but fuck it.

Listen, you're now in Club Paradise
and you may recognize some others here, dancing, incomplete reveries.
Seraphs of stolen memories, blessing the slum heaven we all deny.
There is a God and He may have loved you before,
but you just don't know this city anymore, not its fetishes or
its breathing patterns as it pleasures itself, thinking about you.

And I'm sorry, but these things happen over time.
Umbrella merchants yell out under awnings, a storm gathers in the streets;
when you leave the next morning and step into a sort of
neon wilderness, our lives will be stripped of its constant threat of forgiveness.
Street elegance, there are no sins, no regrets
just people you'll never see or fuck again.
And if tonight's rain should ever relent, perhaps I'll look skyward
and see a spirit as it leaps from building to building
and all of my original theories about your existence
in my heart, the ones that ring ugliest in this type of dark,
will follow me home, wishing you were here all along,
as nobody except yourself.
here, My Dear, here it is
thank so much for the kind words everyone. and yeah, a few weeks ago i wrote a poem by the same title. i took it down and made a lot of edits. its pretty much a completely different poem now
here, My Dear, here it is