02. stories of anti-romance by Philippa JaneA 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
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