April 22, 2021

Dear Gil,

We were reckless, you and I.

The burden of our buried life

Swallowed us whole; and I

In my tempestuous need for a cry

Of Hollywood,

Stood.

Stunned and silent.

Silenced and simmering;

Frozen within like cold ice;

Screaming and shivering.

Knowing nothing can ever offset

The bitterness of unfulfilled Fate.

And in the opaque intersections of a 

Brilliant New York City suns,

You slither down my spine

And tell me: I’m fucked.