Never Trust a Shared Cigarette

She had a .32 rimless
and a white ball-room gown
clinging to her thighs like stars
holding the velvet night down,
like the swirl of a dance
where every memory is a secret
kept in a box in the dressing room.
He said he had a heater, too,
and a box with fifty shells,
and when it starts, baby,
only God knows when it ends,
like an engine when it stalls.
So let's take a drive, sweetheart,
somewhere we can end up
with a Tom Collins and a smoke.
I don't like how the weather is building,
and I don't wanna die alone
with my own bullet in my head.
She said You know I'm crazy for you, Charlie,
but a night like this can't last.
Tomorrow's just a dream, see,
and I don't wanna wake in the rain.
I wanna go some place I can know you, really,
and maybe sink nails into your back.
In the morning the light will spill
like thick diner coffee over the bed
he won't be leaving anytime soon,
sleeping off another of her secrets
and the kiss of a .32.

"Provocateur, barnstormer, daredevil, mystic, dastardly villain, sommelier, absintheur, lover, T.C. Renfroe wraps hope and heartache in a voice of noir. He currently lives in the Midwest and heads a circus sideshow when not writing."

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