Taylor Hill

Disintegration

Your old love songs were once
our tapestry;

our fireplace always flaming;
binding us together as

one hand, or one home,
but as with the fizzle of a

lightbulb before it blows, they now
become an awry jukebox,

playing misfit tunes;
the TV static between angry lovers

and empty beds
with their sheets unkept.

Love now, is like salt,
the slick drag of a cigarette

you last draw before
stamping the butt with your heels

Or perhaps, a bloodied lovebite
on your neck. No more

Cheesy late-night movies
Or ...