her lips are still stained red, a sloppy souvenir from the night before
like her pretty black dress that lies precarious
in the middle of her bedroom floor
through her bloodshot eyes she finds another dawn
violently arriving from the backside of night
she covers her face with an ink-stained arm
in denial of this vile white light
somewhere in this same little town, a mile away or ten
the same vision appears in his heat-soaked sleep
again and again and again:
a girl on the edge of a cliff over a rising sea of foam
her wings made of paper but her heart is of steel
and her only desire is home
he sinks deeper into slumber while she learns how to fly
her teachers are creatures not of this world,
not of this waking life
but just as her feet leave the ground his eyes slip open
as his sleep is wearing so thin
her presence dissolves in morning light's blindness
again and again and again
meanwhile in this same little town, a mile away or ten
she finds her peace under ink-stained arm
she finally sleeps.
