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.