The night David Bowie died

timelapse photography of moon

Photo by samer daboul on Pexels.com

The first girl I French kissed tasted of Indian summer rain

it came later than expected but when it came I was pure,

David Bowies voice flew across the cinema in octaves

he brought my lips to hers like a stray dog scratching a closed door.

 

The second girl I kissed bit my lips to be cool and Madonna

I pushed her over and her dress was covered in dogshit,

she later threw a drink in my face to be edgy and Mandinka

I was lost in my headphones trying to find Major Tom.

 

The night David Bowie died my wife and I laid in silence,

a moth bounced against the filament like wood on drumskin

and we talked about how cancer can never really eat us.

We played This is not America on repeat, then kissed like husband and wife.

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