Tuesday, October 30, 2012

broken seashells

Her words slid backwards,
stumbling on a rough patch,

each syllable a stone
she threw from her mouth.

The second drew blood; he sputtered,

gears grinding across his face.

When she spoke again, it was all ozone,
broken wires and small sparks.

His jaw was a slow car crash.

“Broken seashells washing over each other,”
he’d thought the first time he heard her on the phone.

Now he knocked back a shot of gasoline,
and no one dared strike a match,

except for her -

tossing it to him like a flower,
and walking away.

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