The Stranger

He sat on the bed ignited
as his lips unstitched the evening
and the girl he’d met to the girl he loved.

She was just a stranger he stumbled across, he told me,
someone who needed protection from the boys cut from alcohol and darkness.

And, although it was just a conversation,
he was covered in the dust of her.

So much so that, in touching him,
I was reaching through the night to her.

It was nothing, he told me.
Just a story.

But we are both writers.
And we know exactly what that means.

© Keighley Perkins

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About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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