By 1985 he had a Master as
Reaganomics poisoned his laughter.
White rocks buried our relationship:
I’m still searching for that memory of his last glance.
I was tangled in this dance,
Perhaps now his Master controls me.
The space left in his absence stings hollow.
Is our separation mere illusion,
there’s a mournful comfort in this confusion.
Baggies trail behind like breadcrumbs:
they’re the gatekeepers of You.
Milk dust lined on a mirror,
Each of your blows must reveal a clue.
But to one question I still succumb:
Is there an answer to Abandonment.
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Femme Noir 
2 thoughts on “Milk Rocks”