The End of the Dream

She’s sitting on the hood of my mint blue 65 mustang.
Drinking iced tea, watching the sun fall, the night come.
The end of the road wasn’t paradise, the end of the dream.
I come to sit with her, but first spike my tea with some rum.
 A little house, a scraggly yard, a little place out of the night.
We sleep together, and it’s still good; it’s not what we thought.
Life is life anywhere you go, and this town is just like back home.
That you can’t outrun the world, no matter what dream you bought.
 I put my arm around her, I kiss her brunette head, then her cheek.
She lays her head on my shoulder, and we drink, and she knows I’m drunk.
Tomorrow it will all make sense, and I can beat the bottle, and we’ll be free.
We go inside, watch some show on Netflix, some wild girl with endless spunk.
 Sleepless. Tomorrow it will all make sense, and be clear, in heart and head.
She is troubled by a bad dream, me by sleep that can’t come, and a silence.
I make myself the big spoon, nuzzle her neck, breath her salty, dry skin.
This is peace I tell myself. This is what I always wanted. I dream of violence.

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