Weariness
And she was high
as she jumped off a building,
flew through the sky,
and back into bed.
Cold from her absence
and heavy from age.
She is tired, weary even.
I recall never writing that word
justifying limp drooping hands,
cinder block brown hands,
and no dry shoulder for her
wet face.
Weary, this girl, she could
knead it dull from her back
but the feeling lingered
slinking its heaviness
around her neck to wear her
as a beautiful body
it had not.
On going, she continues,
coffee is no less than a vice,
a cigarette she shares with the night
with a smoker.
She knows the haste, the feeling of
weary.
She does not wear it as well,
as it wears her.