bad typing and worse timing. i never thought i'd play three heart monty at the bus stop. i stopped playing when we got busted. losing was a bitter pill to swallow. the dealer was a shill and i feel hollow. you played me like a game of chess and i got rooked, pawned off for another night alone. i've been a sucker, interrupted and garter belted upside the head. now your corsets seem coarse, a semblance of black satin that feels like sandpaper to the touch and too much wanting laces memories of pulling strings tight. and i still feel tied to our history and i'm tired of telling stories that are better left unsaid. i'm weary of black stockings and lingerie, of undergarments strewn across the floor as you stumbled into bed one last time. now my carpet is covered with guitars and bills, wrapping paper from catalog packages. bourbon bottles and empty beer cans litter the table and cigarette smoke scorches my lungs as i sit on the steps and wonder how i could have gotten mate. i play all the moves over in my head and go through every ply, checking positions, wondering when i should have left my hand on the piece.