Wednesday, December 3, 2008

A Short Story

Henry’s fingers bleed through the torn calluses as he sips Irish coffee and grimaces with the pain… “you are a poet” he says “how can this be beautiful?” as he pushes the finger stained cup towards the salt shaker and sugar…

I say softly, “He left his bloody fingerprints on her throat, with icy hands on shoulders bare he won her heart…”

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