The End of Summer


That was my version of the cinematic last shot
that North Portland alleyway
wet and slick with leaves
rain slowly falling
to break down cardboard into mush.
The smell of overripe grapes
after my last kiss goodbye.
And the end of the movie
becomes the end of the world
where you are lost to your own musings.
And I have lost
the desire, the ability to argue,
our dystopic visions of the future
becoming a metaphor for my own selfishly apocalyptic pain,
a train that just keeps screeching along,
even as it continuously derails.
And we keep trudging toward home, toward our parting,
because you are not wrong
just decomposing, a gut of melting remains
like those rotting grapes
filling my nostrils
with a scent that was so beautiful
just last week.

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