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