You are a rented elegance.
A tub full with harbored planes
of temporary belonging
crashing into my shins.

Making a fool of me
in front of the wise old men
in musty suits
waiting outside the elevator.

Le Secret, waiting like
a half used bottle of perfume,
it's chic taper posting
a high flag to all.

I'm not sure what will become
of my kamikazi strike.

I lost my chance to be neutral
with my only whole heart.
All arteries intact,
beating with the real thing.
Commitment.
It was easy, like breathing.

But each sharp, stilted addition
to my wall of fame
is a new tell.

That may likely be gone forever.

I'm a roamer,
wild, and I hope to
become untamable now that
I've lost my heart
to the windy Sam's town
musical novels of killers long before
whose ghosts are in this very room.