The Journalist (Denouement)

Pools and Greens dropped to
pools of leaves hazeling after her

'Ineverwanttoseeyouagain' schtick and
kitsch and my 'we'llsee' promptly thereafter.

Months passed. Our New York autumned
a gentle adieu until her tacit disregard

for me bled into scissors snipping ribbons:
"Hey. I dreamt about you," she began again;

They were words suspended from an identity
since I'd suspended her from my mind.

"You apologized." And I would come to
apologize and whisper to her again.

But not without distortions, up and down
(spikes in) brows and lips, voices and hands.

Not without trekking Manhattans of
songlessness and abrasive diction.

Not without a night of kissing for seconds and
sleeping sexless until glowing curtains woke us.

For too long we had faith in our turbulence,
that dissonant musicality. Our silent smirks.

And after calling me "sweet" and "rude" while
thinking her a cunt and nun in two week's time,

I realized we can't make this music. We're better
off turning off the mic and going home.