Flicker Out
you will flicker in these words, in the cracks of old pages, like a cigarette butt held too long, a dying ember— and then you'll go out.
even if I write them, even if I mail every letter, every page stained with sweat and cheap whiskey, you'll never get them. they’ll float out there, like lost dogs, like ghosts.
even if I see you again, in some bar, under some cheap neon light, I’ll never see you again. not the way I did when the world still tasted like hope and you still knew how to smile before the flicker went out.