Thursday, August 14, 2008

Sphinx (version 2)

In a cold syrup sweat
His trembling fingers
Clutch a cigarette and mash keys.
His eyes squint in the dark against the glare of the screen.
Trying to find the right letters
To make the right words.
The note seems hollow upon completion.

She’s asleep a couple feet away from him
With a calm, porcelain face,
Looking safe, looking cherubic and sweet.
Her chest rises and falls softly
Massaging the breath from her lungs
In a way that only one with ultimate confidence in love can manage.

He walks out the front door solemnly
And his legs hit the ground like
Cinder blocks
Banging against the pavement.
He stops in front of the corner pub
And stomps out his cigarette,
The last plume of smoke whirling like a bored ghost
Towards the street lights.

He gets drunks while she sleeps, nestled
In the sarcophagus of dream.
Glancing around the bar he spots
At least sixteen girls he’d like to fuck.
None would be as good to him as she is
But that hardly matters now.

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