No Love

Maybe it was the May heat that got to you; the sweat made your finger slip off the trigger. Maybe it should have been two bottles rather than one to put an end to this joke we call life. Maybe it was the pattern of your sleep that tangled your insides and dredged out the criminal in us all, knife aimed at our beating hearts. Maybe it was the miscarriage that made you this way, anxious and unworthy and unable to feel the warmth of a Soul resting upon whatever is in the place of yours. Or maybe it was me, chasing a pipe dream named Denisse. Blind to reality, dumbstruck over the sight of the body, the face, the stupid dresses and skirts, the secondhand clothing that typifies a generation of harlots and wannabe’s, of sad, sad people Just like you