Osmium Sang

It's just some cruel trick that the mind readers use on all the young whelps who are fool enough to pay them what they ask. There's a love-black gutter, filled with more blank books than you could even think to touch, stretching out beside your left ankle, and it might even lead you home. The calliope keeps spinning out its sick whirl of someone's half forgotten grief, and you remember why you once stopped drinking whiskey. You wish the photograph in your wallet were faded but it's too recent to have grown dim in the soft glow of yesterdays. There are less holes in that gun than there ought to be, and you'll feel even more alone when you finally convince yourself you're not getting any more sleep tonight. That cobweb sheet's weight is heavy on your back and you'd rather you were beneath the dry leaves again. None of that is important now. Your ankle is now twisted and you don't even have the cash to buy another forbidden drink of whiskey. If only you'd had the presence of mind to get started later. The calliope's still belching out 'Melancholy Baby' as you curl up in a boarded doorway. The sticky film of regret smiles up at you from her image in your hand. What would she think to look at you now? You could have sworn you'd used another bullet. You try and tell yourself that it was his job to tell you what he supposed you'd wanted to hear. Tonight your feathers are thick with dirty water. You roll over again, find a blank book for a pillow. The trees are budding green and the ground is cold and wet, but that's just not important now.