We’re in the backseat. Smoke plumes burst from our nostrils and sockets. No cigarettes; only the boredom of immortality. That old sun pinks the drumlin, smolders us. Vintage leather gloves hit the floor. Our hands are flames. We singe. I bite my own lip. Our coffins are safe at home.
JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. He teaches creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Find his writing on itsjrwalsh.com.
Neat! I’m not sure I understand it, but I want to.
Beautifully written and very well done.
Thanks Paul – that’s very kind!
The imagery is stunning in this poem. Youth may be fleeting but not in the midst of it!
Leaves me to wonder, can they crawl into the trunk…will that save what remains? I can just imagine that last ditch effort… nicely done…
Well done, Paul. Awesome word choice and pacing that convey the depths of their shared love/life/chosen death story. The ending seems rather tragic, and yet, two less vampires in this world should make us mere humans feel relieved!