He told me the truth using no words,
leaving me to walk alone at twilight.
Enveloped by choking air,
I saw colors in peripherals
like the sky incurred brain damage.
Romance was like shopping.
He was a floor model, but I never
needed cellophane wrapping.
Impatience made the selection,
loneliness swiped the card,
hijacked by hope that the attributes
of someone are what you are buying.
I miss the old days when flames burned
out revealing caps twisting in hands.
It was an event, spectacular like being
an audience member at a firing squad.
The art has been broken and
replaced with staring at a screen.
Holly Fine studied history and creative writing at UC Berkeley and lives in Los Angeles. She has studied poetry at UCLA Extension Writers’ Program.