A sniper of hearts with an ageless face.
A practiced turncoat in a den of thieves,
her lips curl a smoke screen with a cigarette
she sips gin – straight as an arrow
and hard as the slate in her eyes.
A glance thrown is a glance returned.
Rising, she is a wraith in the corridor.
Following, he a bull in a china shop.
Desire edged with disdain runs hot—liquid steel
down concrete walls slurred with worn graffiti.
Reaching the veranda, air like dry-ice
burning down the throat.
His touched callused rough
on skin pinpricked by cold.
Behind them only wrought iron balustrade,
then the great drop to below.
A moment or a life-time of pain?
She flips the switchblade.
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