Casino

Fingertips tear through the air
as though it were the thinnest of tissue,
- or like a hot knife through skin -
grasping empty-handed for something
which left here quite some time ago,
where it went, who knows?

Every moment of contact
is just another salt to pour
into an open, gulfing wound
- not a wound from intention,
just unkind circumstance
and rolling the tumbling dice
inside life’s palatial casino,
the table where buy-in is free,
but nobody ever walks away
with their own existence
to still claim as their own.

Man behind the table,
expectably dressed,
plastic visor,
clean suit,
little bow-tie
- the man beside me
couldn’t be more different -
cigarette in hand,
Scotch rocks in front,
face riddled with scars,
eyes telling of all that’s been and gone -
and we sit,
and we drink our drinks,
talk about the bets
that we’ve made and lost,
when the odds are stacked
millions to one.

(I still love you but it hurts me too fucking much, and I want to tell you, but I can't, so I don't, so I avoid you, and I force myself to hate you, in some futile idea that someday maybe you'll hate me enough for me to let go.)


/disconnect.