Wednesday, April 4, 2012


A saxophone train screams

it's that kind of night

I'm sitting here wishful

__________


I drove to the liquor store under a marbled sky steeped in sunset. Later, I was going to find love on paper with a Cabernet in my hand. The words have to be perfect. They are never perfect.


She tipped her chin in the sunlight and dark hair brushed her back.

The light is like butter, I said.

Will that make me yummy? she asked.

A curl, tired of being a curl, loosened across her shoulder. Shining eyes looked up and down at me.


Wait, I said. Look a little lower and only with your eyes, but don't move your head. Pale light washed her skin and a flash behind frosted her hair. She was a dream of shadows and eyelashes that deepened my trust in models bursting in a beautiful pose.




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