...persistent hope like
a flower in the ashes;
she cradles her soul...
It's 11:11, a sixty second wish
mouthed to morning's crippled sun
by lips in their totality unclean,
coupled with a tear in the name
of self made love the pain
slowly dissolves into nothing more
than a darker shade of grime
on this concrete floor,
every crack and dip mapped out
in her unsteady mind.
A tattoo gun whirs,
stopping and starting to the rhythm
of classic rock and static
echoing around the garage from
a cheap car stereo.
Tobacco smoke mingles
with the fumes of gasoline and oil
creating an intoxicating mix;
but this is her familiar.
The aroma twirls its fragile fingers
in her raspberry accented curls
sinking its comforting arms
into a well worn leather jacket,
pleasant memories to be easily recalled
with a quick turn and attuned senses.
2 days ago