not ideal

the dingy black and white room with scuttling cockroaches and spiders spinning traps

empty bottles lay on their sides

no more than vapors of past conquests

two bodies lie in a tangle of sweat soaked drug induced satiation

lying on a stained mattress and wrapped in a pile of rags

eyes flutter under heavy lids

chemically induced passion and haze

from the corner a rat watches them, steeling the courage to race across the floor and steal a morsel of discarded paper wrapped poison from the greasy bag

and she moves

spasming in a dream of junk flowing like a waterfall and white picket fences

he doesn’t shift

specks of foam around his mouth and blood dried around his nose

a blackened syringe gripped loosely in his hand

her ass in his other, the gaunt skeletal jutting of her hip bone like a shard of broken concrete just under pallid skin

it isn’t the ideal love story

but it’s theirs

and it more than some have

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