West of the

Pizza place, we're retouched in gold.
Something desperate it is that you hold wide in you hands
as you
explain
as always.
Maybe I had something to say to you then.
That moment's gone missing.
Pizza place, we're retouched in gold.
Its accolades in want of mantles,
walls, even.
Its accolades hanging otherwise
poltergeistically
in the chill that worries my spine.