After she walked out on him for good,
he slugged down 24 bottles of beer.
He fell to the floor and couldn’t get up.
All he could see was her face
swirling around on the ceiling above.
Starving for love like an infant
suffering from anaclitic depression,
he reached out for her touch,
scent of her soft bosoms
and sound of her voice.
He clung to the memory
of how gracefully she danced
at the first strum of his guitar.
When the police arrive,
rigor mortis had set in
with a jaw bone frozen open.
The stench of piss-stained pants
no longer mattered in a face
severely contorted in a grimace—
downturned forever—an anguished mask
of hopelessness, forlorn as a used condom,
washed up on the shore when the tides roll in.