Surrender

A love story.

Pupils still dilated with drops of madness 

and the lingering sting of a rubber tourniquet

wound around his left arm, now drooping.

He wears tinted shades with specks of gold

in places the sun would never brave to see;

the softened gleam of street lamps are enough.

Flecks of chipped paint cling to sticky skin

in a mixture of blighted sweat beads and rot,

the remanence of his evening’s residence.

When the red hues of morning waking burn

he knows to join the night sky in surrender,

be it to the dawn or to his dying braincells.