by Kaylee Pratt
Three things lie on my bedside table:
An ashtray, a condom, and my love for you.
The tapestry he gave me is fleeing the wall,
lilting from the breath of the open window.
The sheets—as a whole—a colloquial heap,
more a mess than the folds in my ribs.
The air tastes like longing and secondhand smokethough the ashtray is empty;
You’d rather throw your lit cigarettes
off the skirts of the balcony
than return to the bed and see me.
The tapestry he gave me is fleeing the wall,
lilting from the breath of the open window.
The sheets—as a whole—a colloquial heap,
more a mess than the folds in my ribs.
The air tastes like longing and secondhand smokethough the ashtray is empty;
You’d rather throw your lit cigarettes
off the skirts of the balcony
than return to the bed and see me.
Kaylee Pratt enjoys half-dead trees (also known as autumn), jogging uphill (also known as torture), and collecting books (also known as drooling at Barnes & Noble). Despite her literary obsessions, she’s studying as a Creative Media major at Champlain College in order to extend her storytelling into less conventional mediums.
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