Unkind

She has a fast and sleek black car.

Faster than the starlight from across the galaxy.

Faster than the intrusive thoughts filling my head.

Faster than death itself.

–

I will walk to the sea, the cold North Atlantic,

Where the water is gray and choppy, hungry.

I will not think of her (I will think of her.)

I once kissed an angel in a tourist town.

–

The silence I can’t even find in dreams.

I might draw a sigil of hope in the dust.

I might write her name as a substitute for God.

The mermaid’s of the North Atlantic are unkind.