Aardvarks

Batman was in the oven. Robin the microwave. Spoiled like the beer skins we discover on the surface of the bottles after a long night of being ourselves.

The anatomy of loneliness drawn in stretch marks on the glass. Sober little smiles flaunting the comedy of addiction. A thousand summers in my palm. Writing the future. In crochets of skin. A thousand more winters in my pocket. A warrior and a cripple. The crime of epiphany. Singing. Loose change. A coin toss of decisions. A chess board in our thoughts. A bishop in your stare. A pawn in your finger.

I always intended to lose. I just never meant for it to be so obvious.

A million little locks in my skin suddenly opening. With just one key.