April 1998 / Volume One / Issue Two
K. Daniel Frye
Where's the True?

Dust builds cities in the corners of my mouth..My heart is a pale thud under a soaked
black t-shirt..Lipsticksmudged beer bottles collect at the side of my bed..

My head yearns to make it real but my heart won't let it..
      So few touch past the skin..
      So few get past the morning..
When the black and white become a full 64 pack of Crayolas..But you just can't stay
between the lines...So, I look down at the red hair draped over my chest...
                           You've been here before...
                           Many nights have seen us stumble up flights of stairs..
What seems effortless is a stained manipulation when the nearest star raises its head to
cast out the drunken infatuation of the night before..

The morning finds us saying what we have to say in order to keep the door open to the
next 2 a.m. call  of  lonliness... I swear to myself  not  to deal again  in  an  emotionless
cigarette shred between two exhausted bodies..   But do you know it's not true....   Just
ass any exaggerated embrace of the night before isn't true..   Much truer is the cigarette
smoked alone  as I stare at the  nicotine stained ceiling  after you've  long collected your
clothes and gone..

I pull the blanket to my chest, put out the cigarette and close my eyes to find myself
with less vivid memories of the night before when I wake up...

Where's the true?
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