One-hundred and Eleven: Wearing Your Heart On Your Face

They were just a photograph in the book of my life
They rode something rusty and red,  a scab of a bike
chugging along in staccato steps. I saw her face first,
an opal oval pressed into him, half-hidden, immersed
in her beige hair like a shell in the sand. They popped,
her eyes, they popped like bubbles of despair. I stopped
talking and I watched her, that rag-doll mouth slack
against his back. That slanted embrace and that cracked
face, the way she held onto a man gazing into the horizon,
obviously dreaming about another eyes, another’s corazon.


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

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