Los Angeles, NY
       

What he can't remember is why soon they'll stop meeting
in the gold, lonely rooms. Through the old streets, through history,
the limousine came and inside it you flipped like a page in a cheap paperback.
The ride into death glowed past summer
and the end took a long time to write—mostly descriptive:
peeling away the fruit's meat and the smell still under your nails.
Like a scarf, the adjectives barely covered us.
Although it was beautiful, the dialogue revealed little about anyone else.
"We are not just those persons which we were,"
wrote John Donne, and it was a question.
How love disappeared like money,
and you ran the asylum inside you alone...

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Copyright © 2017 Alex Dimitrov All rights reserved
from Together and by Ourselves
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission