Where Neptune Meets Luna

she wrote his number
on her hand
in blood

ok,
not really
            in
blood
at least
not
at first

first there was
ink
ink the colour of blood
but
     ink
nonetheless

she scribbled the number
on her hand
smiling, almost giggling,
neither of which she does.
Not
     Ever
scribbling on her hand
and/or
giggling, i mean
as she
has
been known to smile.
from time to time.

where was i???

oh, yeah
blood

the blood happened
somewhere
                after
the tears
somewhere
                before
the cigarettes
about the time
He
was closing the door
                           or
about the time
she
     realized
He
was closing the door.

yes, then
probably

she went to
move
the phone from her
Right hand to her
Left,
so she could
get a cigarette with her
Right,
but the Left wouldn’t
move.

i mean, it
would
        Move,
it just wouldn’t
        Open.

He was saying,
over and over and
over again,
He was saying,
     We always wind up here again
     We always will wind up here again

in that exhausted voice she
loves,
over and over and
Over
      again.

so, yeah, ok —
blood

when she realized her
Left, her Left
hand
wouldn’t open, she
looked
          down.

the pointed nails of the
last two fingers were
stuck,
just stuck,
in the palm of her hand.
i mean, Ringie and Pinkie
were
      really
              truly
S t u c k
            like
S t a b b e d S t u c k
into the palm of her
Left
     hand,
right
on top of His
number.

she stared at it
for a while, never
missing a
             whisper
of His voice as it  
chased
around her head.

she told the
Right
side of her brain
to signal her
Left
fingers to
move.

it did.
they did.
            but
only a little.

that’s when she
knew
       Everyone
needed help.

she considered just
leaving
them there – S t u c k
like that,
but she really, really,
really
        Needed
a cigarette.

so
she balanced the
phone
on her shoulder,
careful not to
CutOff or Mute
Him, and, still
                   listening,
still carefully
                  listening,
she grabbed
Ringie and Pinkie
with her
Right
hand and
                   plucked
them
from her
Left.

two perfect half-moons
cut
    His
scribbled number,
one
at 3 and 6,
one
at 9 and 7.

she moved the
phone,
         again
so carefully,
from shoulder
                   to
Thumb and Pointer
of her Left hand.

she lit a cigarette,
thinking how
good
it was that the first
drag always,
A l w a y s
tasted like
TheFirstDrag,
TheVeryFirstDrag,
the drag when
she
      was
eleven.

and thinking, she
watched
             them,
the perfect half-moons
in her palm,
fill with blood.

just as they made to
spill
down her wrist, she
dipped the
unfiltered, unburning
end
of the cigarette in
to the blood, and began to
T r a c e
            slowly
the digits of His
number into her
skin

ash fell,
           right
about the point He
said,
I have to go.  I have to go.  I really have to go.

the ash
         mixed
with the blood,
becoming
not black,
not purple,
not red,
           but
a colour she remembered
as
Blue False Indigo

yes,
that’s what it was.
B l u e F a l s e I n d i g o

when he lay down the
phone,
she did
          too
and, staring into
the rear view, she
deftly
        delicately
                     painted
her face
with
B l u e F a l s e I n d i g o,

all the while wondering
Why
she had never
thought to
do so
        Before.

© s rogers 1 june 2011, all rights reserved

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