The Blood On Your Feet

April 30, 2012

The Blood On Your Feet

My motorcycle leaned against a Dutch Elm. I could see him across the park. With his camera. I was leaning against the trunk. James Dean in your mouth. And all the shadows were leaning away. Like Puritans. Who wanted nothing to do with us.

You said you couldn’t live without money. On your cigarette break. And I was a born. Pauper. Maybe if I had been a better lover. Or liar. You couldn’t make up your. Mind. There was me. And the architect. And the drunk down at the Islington Hotel.

Why was I so crazy about you. You were skinny. Not that pretty. Was it the holes in your hands. Or the blood on your feet.

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