The imprints of tears appear like a time lapse of past fights.
Her lipstick is smeared on the wine glass from last night,
but she's gone now.
She came into my life like a rainbow,
all colors and sugar and spice.
I let my pain go. It's not the same, though,
rubbing the glitter from eyes.
This was day seventeen since Eternity
by Calvin Klein
had flirted me into trying this mountain climb.
I hadn't known she'd existed.
I liked her clothes.
She liked my cheekbones and how they rose when I grimaced.
We went to clubs. I never went to clubs before, reclusive-type
whose evenings usually concluded in Four Roses fused with ice.
I needed more open room to write.
She needed the party life and attention.
So we went to clubs and danced while others offered blind resentment.
They couldn't see us. They only saw her,
as she basked and glowed.
She stood six-two in those heels and swayed like Axl Rose.
And so we danced. From Thicke to Thin Lizzy,
we'd spin, dizzy —
engaged in a personal Sin City.
She started coming home late, with the scent of men's cologne
faintly lingering on the small of her back.
The emptiness of home kept me from calling her tack
even if I'd have been better off alone instead of swallowing acts.
And this all was just that.
I knew it somewhere, beneath the frilly dresses.
But when we'd hit the town, nothing seemed to kill her essence.
Charisma consumes all in its path.
I was becoming obsessed.
We could sit for hours, soaking in the rush of her zest.
There's a quiet silence in watching yourself disappear.
My identity slipped at an untenable clip.
Enveloped in tears,
I stared at the face in the mirror through opal contacts.
The blonde wig reeked of cigarette smoke and cognac.
The mascara was trickling over pointed cheekbones.
The legs were shimmering in the light from streaked hose.
I looked into the mirror. I looked at a Perfect 10.
I shattered it with a single blow,
and I never saw her again.
|