The Cigs and the Season

The backyard hurries to burry the end of a drag;

she hears the echo of an eight and a half inch sole
on faded neon black:
The pillow of footsteps coming home
The little pockets of the street that collect
his cigarette ash like rain.

They're praying for failed discoveries:
The yellow residue that bites at the webbing of peace fingers,
The nonexistent twitch of their lips,
before the tainted kiss,

Like the worlds wasted their nights on ABC sitcoms.
Like the drift of steam from hot Octobers on ice.
Like the coat hook hold on a season 11 years ago.

There's a conversation starving in
the attic of their dreams;
Dead ends still being filed with
the gritty overbite of teeth. It's
where the dusty pages of the bible
taught them how to lie to themselves,
taught them how to negate distances of love with god;

His thumb ended up closer to the Marb Reds than her side of the bed.
Her mind on the USA Golds he won't ever know about.

Their smoldering like gutter love
- A meandering coal far from that drip of gas they've never had.

They know:
they'll never spark like the flint that carries
the deep bellow of their lies home to bed at night.

-Nathaniel T. Hughes, October 2007

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