At the end of your dock,
at the end of your world,
what keeps you from jumping off?
What emerald lights your way home
on those velvet evenings when
you fall asleep on your own?
The breaking waves inside your heart
that beat you on against the current
of your incorruptible dream.
That golden afternoon in her arms,
her blossoming beneath you, your world
bubbling into the modern as she breathes.
She was everything and nothing at once.
She was money and fame and gold.
She was heart and soul, booze and jazz.
The honey of her golden curls bounced
as you bounced for her too,
her sunburned words cloaked in satin.
The shot rang like her voice but stuck
in your chest like hot, bleeding nostalgia.
The greatest of men fall
hardest of all.
Your ripple still pulses through the pool
of red, white, and blue.