The woman came outside with a cigarette…
It’s the last smoke that keeps her floated.
The man was there too…
with his long forgotten controls.
All the concussions were there with a city that is longing in it’s way of getting old.
Decades were crossing in darkness…the abyss was getting slow,
all the novels, all the poets were missed by the midnight lanes.
They were looking at each other through the smoggy dreams of the empty chaos,
they were locking hands with the smell of suicides that happen during every fall.
What is there to loose a sudden dusk?
What is there to promise a dying crowd?
What is there to bet on an amateur poem?
But both of them remained silent…just eyes were engaged…
and that night both of them slept with the knife in their bed to strike at each other during the immutable intercourse.

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Photograph: Cody Sullivan.