I.
Maybe its the coffee
or the buckshot in my blood
that's steals away my bones
and set the sun to sparkle
like a jubilant tambourine
on my sap streaked rear-views.
II.
The noose around my neck
is a homemade scarf
that snuggles my shoulders
warm as bourbon and honey,
as it strangles
the air from my lungs.
III.
What can I do
when it isn't quite love?
When the euphoria, the heartache,
and the tightrope in between
don't add up
to anything I can name.
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