"Bless his naive heart," she whispered into the darkness, a phrase as soft and sharp as a scalpel's edge. It was an old southern comfort meant to pity the foolish, but she had drained it of all warmth, leaving...

I am the ghost of coffee stains and old pagesin books, the echo of frayed threads and knotsin the box of unfinished chapters. The ghostof the key that once fit the lock, now anapostrophe.

More intimate than a kiss, smoking a cigarettea safe word never spoken with a venomous bitemasquerading a soul from tar pit's debaucherycheating oblivion rising from the stonea patchwork tapestry speaking in tonguebetween the tuning fork of your flesh