Live a little, she said,
lighting a cigarette with a practiced nod,
eyes closed like going in for a kiss.
Stop apologizing for yourself in advance --
itís a nasty habit.
Try to love me
like itís something you actually care about
more than the idea of being loved.
Try a little, she told me,
cesium smoke in a blooming fountain.
Make the effort Ė act like itís something you want,
and fuck what the others think.
Words can never save you,
theyíre just the lyrics of a song.
Itís when Miles blows the trumpet
that heís really got my attention.
Risk a little--
as I stared into the amber fathoms
blurring the grain of the wood --
learn to love the threat of failure.
All good lovers fall apart one day,
broken and burned on the ashes of unfulfillment
passion leaves behind.
Sacrifice a little,
even if itís just a perception;
you can try it on for size.
Maybe itíll cost more than your comfort--
Iíd like to think Iím worth a little of that.
Someday youíll have to make the choice
when I canít stay in these rumpled bedclothes,
for when you donít have better dreams to chase.
And I remember having good reasons
for every rainbow and fallen leaf,
but theyíve seemed a little hollow these days,
with those bedclothes by the window
piled with chalky morning fog,
and Iím watching them
through the tunnel of our history
reflected in the glass.

"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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