[e11even]

I remember it like last night's dinner,
But it was more like a past life, that last white winter.
We met at the local dive, his tag Dwight Spencer.
We talked the entire night and shared laughs with light liquor.
This abstinent romance was like a passionate slowdance.
We basked in it, but his masculine tones matched with his cold glance.
He was all man, and unabashed that he was known.
The night scene clearly his home, his demeanor an objective and bold stance.
I was attracted enough to have him for lunch.
We had sandwiches and wine and that was enough.
He poured me my third and hit my flat to catch up,
And that's where it gets hazy, maybe to recap is too much.
The last ten months were a denial of buried photography.
Laughs ignored, but the paths explored just got to me.
I was a naive girl. Now my heart won't skip to that forgotten beat.
The Scotch and blotching sheets are testament to his property.
I drank and cried avoiding the sound of our love.
And though it pounds at my heart, it's my intestines it tugs.
Our love didn't deserve this, but name someone who does.
Memoirs were driving me mad, and that's where we hung...
The edge of madness was on the ledge in my wedges gasping,
The wind smashing my forehead as the weather crashes.
The sun cloaked in clouds made fall come down to harass us.
Our Love and I were trapped between a window and broken dreams, fastened.
I couldn't move. Just then, the rush of his passion had flooded in.
His face full of rage and my consciousness fades as he's snuffing it.
My tears parted ways in the wind, hitting panes as I buckled, sick.
His voice echoing in the grave of my innocence, waiving my pain for sadistic kicks.
In that moment of clarity, my heart broke.
The summer ended as I let go of our Love and watched her cloths float.
The fifth story was but the first in a large scope.
The news aired the disaster of a serial rapist in Barstow.