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Rhys Lee

The Boy Who Smokes and the Pretty Girl

The smoking barrel of

a fifty-year gun droops from

his fingers, like surrealist

clocks, which he kisses

with his chapped lips at

half-minute intervals.


The ravines in his hands,

deep as the Grand Canyon,

are filled with dirt, oil, and

grease like semi-permeable

dams trying to hold the

tempest inside.


Addict-shaking hands

tear into a carton of

cigarettes he hasn’t seen

since the Big Bang, cosmic

maladies building up, forming

cracks, needing a fix.


Her high cheek bones hold

a self-medicated blush, her stark

hazel eyes, red and swollen

from a broken dam, now

flow with alcohol

instead of tears.


Different thoughts never

formed, she now contemplates

slitting wrists to bleed

out until the deep rivers

finally form words for

the tempest inside.


Her petite shaking shoulders

crave comfort from

addict-shaking hands

which are bringing

cigarettes to chapped lips

at half-minute intervals.


Alas, lost in morning,

the Ferryman stole their child.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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