moved out some years ago, i've built a home
it's evenings bring people, but i'm always alone.
i miss the distant city lights,
the wishful, ambient nights
when my reality was once a dream.
they're singing fifties classics half drunk
romanticizing love as they discuss hookups-
that pretty young thing,
her allure, ability,
and illicit fling.
i grimace because i was once her,
ambitious and starry eyed,
addicted to validation.
i would defend her,
but i'm out of motivation.
old men's fables, lines on tables-
i've consumed so much i can't breathe.
i'm relying on regret to keep me alive,
although i wonder if i've overstayed my time.
maybe the penitentiary, a lobotomy,
or i could embody the poets and do it aesthetically.
i'd appear in archives, revered as a timeless beauty,
and have my legacy written by those who never knew me.
an ex-ingenue, devoid of value
is susceptible to american erasure.
this cycle shall repeat for the new naive
because i won't be there to save her.
