by Ethan Blumhorst
Black eye espresso
Heading home from a meal with friends, I wish I had hearing aids so the duties could be abolished.
You were a drunk buffoon, you didn’t back my arguments, the way you ate was utterly disgusting.
Resembles her pillow talk.
After fifty years of verbal masochism I figure would be used to it.
While she continues berating me, I see an almost glowing path to the right of the bridge.
It feels essentially like being lifted by the arms of an angel until we strike the surface.
The cold water begins to fill the car; matching our hearts.
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