in these dreams, she writes with emotions
(not the twenty-six alphabets),
about a sentimentality
inexpressable.
they hold her down by the arms
on cold, metal tables and shine on her
lights warm enough to break through
any nightmare. but--

leather straps are much softer against
raw, raw skin and so she
falls deeper into the dream she doesn't want
to wake from. they're breathing.

--it's not a nightmare, she whispers
but nothing comes out other than
those unwritten emotions.

they're breathing nicotine all over her
body, and stand admiring
gray smoke and white skin.
in their eyes, these are colors of the
rainbow,
more beautiful than
sin.

it's the adrenaline at work, says goldilocks, in the
midst of this pandemic, and the brothers grimm suddenly
the epitome of placebo-pill-endings.
they're checking their reflections in polished leather boots and
doing last-minute touchups on those semi-automatics.
it's not truly a war and not truly a battle, maybe as real as
the tales of three blind mice.

they remember the rules of the game and still
come home in body bags.

theirs was not a dramatic love story,
nothing like the soap operas
on t.v.
there were no fireworks, celebrations,
(or congratulations)
just a simple touch of fingers,
lips to lips,
soft.
and.
warm—
theirs was not a hollywood romance,
but it could be the quiet blooming of a flower
in spring, still hidden from the world,
just two boys who want to be
together.

0.

she writes with a permanent pen
chapters of a life-story on her
arm and when she runs
outofspace she
writes along the curve of her long
body and around the ankles
where the neat lettering swirls into a condensed
circle and protrudes when she traces the ink over
the bone;
she takes care to cover her fingers in sharp
pen marks in a soft pattern with the words
notre amour, c’est éternel
but forgets that it is all just a (life)story played out
in her mind while she finishes this pen and reaches for
the next with childlike fingers;

1.

he is the boy around the corner with
dirt in his broken fingernails because he
chews on them to try to stop
smoking; (she writes)

with a most pale complexion and dark brown eyes that
looks right through you--
with dirty blond hair that trail messily over his face
and hang uncropped
over his ears;

he is dressed in a torn, faded yellow tshirt with dark brown
stains that dot the fabric and
jeans, frayed
at the ends;

sometimes i walk past (she writes) and he
is perched carelessly against the rusty lamp post in
the corner with a cigarette in-between his
fingers and ashes at his feet--
he inhales nicotine into his lungs and
breathes out sin so beautifully

2.

he is there at 6am, translucent and alone under the pale light
of the morning, features covered in a haze of smoke
and cigarette ashes falling, falling
falling--
like bits and pieces of a fairytale untold,
hers are the steps that don't exist,
it is the middle of an unknown battle,
bodies and body bags and no survivals
except for the single white lily that no eyes can see,
tucked away among the chaos and one petal
less; blood-stained. dismembered--

cigarette embers fade under her feet
and suddenly he is
so clear, so close;
hooded eyes. long lashes. chapped lips.
“hey baby” he says, but his lips never move,
“what's a dainty little doll like you doing here?”
she thinks it's only her imagination,
but he takes her hand and
runs dirty fingers over her
knuckles, kisses her like he means it,
a fairytale of lovemetrue mixed with stale cigarette smoke
sweet on his tongue but numb
on hers;

her white dress hooks on a crooked nail
jutting from the lamp post and
rips.