scribble scrabble

too old to believe in miracles.

dj krush slowly occupying my mind as i
exhale, cigarette smoke abandons my
throat and fills the space around me. the
striking image of her collar bone aches
when i try to decipher clues she left for
me in the photograph. (at least i think she did.)
in her strange language a caption, “tomorrow
ill tell you a story of how we met.” over exposure
electrifies the curvature of her sharpie-drawn
tattoo. i inhale again, confuse the songs and
static from the radio, and allow myself to
fall. because sometimes, when it hurts like
this, i dream her away in dark red nail polish,
“maybe this time she wont leave.”.