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02. stories of anti-romance

by Philippa Jane

A romanticist never uncovers the gaping void,
as telling as the great expanse tattooed
across her thighs; nor speaks of her heart,
purple and black, suspended above his
silent luminance.

In truth, she ignited with a spark, an inferno
of raw vodka blazing across a desert throat,
breath the exhaust of stale cigarettes.
Midnight became the epitome of unhealthy,
lungs burning but familiar. Even the caress of a
cement jaw revealed substantial comfort,
smothered while temptation lingered between
cracked bones. Countless sleeps, but still no
awakening.

Four years, four decades - who can say?
The ending still remains unchanged either way:
he unveiled his sturdy joints long before her
nails became shatterproof.

03/31/2004

Posted on 04/01/2004
Copyright © 2024 Philippa Jane

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Karen Michelle on 04/03/04 at 03:46 AM

This was mindblowing...xo

Posted by Rachelle Howe on 07/21/11 at 11:24 PM

INSTANT favorite. This is brilliant.

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