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Time For Another Love SongThis woman was made from musical stone,
chiseled from death metal that screams in the night;
crying against the hand that loved her,
the hand that beat her black and blue,
tore into her like a jagged hooked knife,
and ripped out her dreams to the sound of the band.
He says no one will love her other than him
though he doesn't love her at all
he digs his claws into her heart,
and drives his fangs through the flesh of her throat
to render her blood only his;
or else he will splatter it over the other man,
to the sound of screaming and chords being struck.
But she can't leave him at the end of this show,
as the lights go down and she's standing alone,
holding a baby in her arms
that she wishes was anyone else's but his:
the man who tore into her again and again,
with his hooked knife and broken smile;
to the sound of a new band walking on stage
as her child cries with the tune of a love song.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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