the days have no names

drinking red wine alone at night.

turning over his words in my mind
like a jeweler inspecting gems.


were they genuine?

was it an idle whim?

perhaps a cruel joke,
origins stemming from my childhood
(don’t think about those days
you’re better than those days
days can’t define you
unless you let them)

maybe he doesn’t even know
the unrest his whim has evoked.


a stab in the dark?
maybe just pyrite.
a false flicker then it’s gone.
a fistful of ill-placed hope and a sucker punch to the gut.


tiptoe on the scales
weighing out hearts
and trying to remember
they aren’t just organs:
it’s a human
it’s a consciousness
it’s a betrayal
but for whom?


the wine isn’t helping.
the sensation isn’t going away.
all the guilt
without even having acted.
experience tells
this can’t end well.

I guess at least the pages will be full now.

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