BabyGrace
Refugee
she bites her nails carefully,
tiny pieces left on the satin
of her red lips;
his hand rests idly on the dead
leather of the steering wheel
as his breath frosts the space
between them.
he pretends he could see
her heartbeat against his chest
like another;
she trains her eyes to aversion,
keeping watch on the neon passage
and the faint distaste in his shadow,
subtle as wet glass.
no token of coffee,
or promise of more.
a distant siren warning,
still only alley-cat scrabble breaches
the bare space between them;
two gunshots misfire in the darkness,
and with the slam of a car door
the intended bullets are lost to the night.
______
I'm uncomfortable with the last stanza; I had this idea in my head but when I wrote it, it came out sounding corny and I can't seem to get rid of that effect
tiny pieces left on the satin
of her red lips;
his hand rests idly on the dead
leather of the steering wheel
as his breath frosts the space
between them.
he pretends he could see
her heartbeat against his chest
like another;
she trains her eyes to aversion,
keeping watch on the neon passage
and the faint distaste in his shadow,
subtle as wet glass.
no token of coffee,
or promise of more.
a distant siren warning,
still only alley-cat scrabble breaches
the bare space between them;
two gunshots misfire in the darkness,
and with the slam of a car door
the intended bullets are lost to the night.
______
I'm uncomfortable with the last stanza; I had this idea in my head but when I wrote it, it came out sounding corny and I can't seem to get rid of that effect