On the Outskirts of My Mind and a City in Northern BC

I am still here
writing shitty poetry
and you were bought
like art and gone
like fleeting moments
that mean nothing
until after you move on.
I closed my mouth
and tasted our lies,
opened it again to raise
my voice and I watched it
climb over you.
I wrote to you after
I left, and it killed me
because you never could.
I was sorry for that one
fleeting moment and you
knew, but you gunned
the engine and I sailed
around the world in a second
inside a stolen rental,
until I was outside and broke
again like the passenger door
I handled, when it locked
you inside and I could split
without you, thumbing me
to pay your way back home.
In my head I am here asking
how am I still there, kicking
at those slashed tires
when all I want is to lie
on the hood like I used to, before
I poured gasoline in the ditch,
and flicked my cigarette.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

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