Humphrey Bogart
We are sitting in a nightclub. I hold your white hand across the grey
table. My hair is black, slicked back. Your hair is tucked up under your
grey pillbox hat. We look into each other's faces, but the details are
hard to make out. We are very blurry. For them, over there, it makes
their faces look soft and warm. Here, we become ghosts. We flow out into
the air as if we were evaporating. But your eyes and lips are as dark as
ever. Our mouths move, but no sound comes out. We gesture with small,
curt motions meant only to replace conspicuous stillness. They kiss, and
we fade completely into grey streaks splattered across cheap celluloid,
slapping against a projector in an empty theatre.
Jason Corley --
corleyj@cobweb.scarymonsters.net