Fifty-six: Crossroads

This is how it goes.

A writer reads adverts on telephone booths,
all the while leaning into the city, hoping
for some super strength caress to soothe
her aching hands, dog-tired of grasping at
the shadows of heart-strings. This is
every street corner but there are double takes
and cheeky cheek kisses, leaving her, wanting
to take more.

Cross the street.

So surprised someone else is steering,
that she does, looking left and wondering what’s right.

On the other side it’s colder than she thought but
she sits quietly, stealing swallows of wine and
sideway glances under winking stars.
She’s listening
(she doesn’t have a choice)
and every other word moves her until
she is not here
but riding bareback on a shooting star, confused
because she should be burning but she’s cool,
so cool, lapping up
waves of words that he’s wrapping around her neck like a string of pearls,
a thousand little moons nestled into the cold collar bone.

Sit down.
Come here.

The worst part is that she obeys.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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