Puddles of Carbonara Wet My Tears

Nightmares and a cold, gray room gone stale reflecting the dimes of a drowsy Tuesday.

On days like today,
everybody’s sins taste delicious except my own.

Wrinkled fingertips, weary from their murky dives become a plaything to slashing entities
shaved and grated

to become cheese for the chicken carbonara.

Strange,
the numbing effects of water.
I don’t feel a thing.

I walk home in the change blood mixing with asphalt draining for lunch
and soon I am dying, face down in a puddle of my own making,

which speaks to the prevalence of puddles in Winter.

Warm sin trickles to my tongue. What a pathetic effort,
and I drink.