Four Months In

Sunsets have fallen victim to subscription: 
three dollars self-service paid 
in exact change. 
I watch ours through found hours, 
fingers twined through yours, 
misnomered as Pantone streaks the sky. 
I saw us neutral and chaste in front of 
a Malibu Metro PCS, 
chain gas station, youth enamored, 
In the dream house; 
it falls together before it falls apart. 
Cheap drinks and cheaper dates and 
still cheaper thrills: 
fully divorced from the bug-filled affairs 
of baked sandy dunes,  
bleached whiter here. 
I’m not going to write another love poem 
about something I made up, 
something I saw fabricated after the fact 
from a landlocked beach. 
That’s just a desert.