nicole.

i never see her wearing jackets
and her clothes smell like smoke and food and blaring television.
there’s change in her hair
and dimming fires in her eyes,
warmth banked in the cool cleft behind her brows.
she’s never cold so she dances at four am
and she smokes pot in the rain, staring at car lights till they blur.
movies play over her skin
like never ending memories of better [fasterlonger] times.
sometimes she’ll stare at you until you turn away
and you’ll feel her watch your back as you walk
and you don’t know where’s she going until she’s disappeared.
she painted her own room and came to school covered in drops of red
looking like she’s bleeding from her pores.
she wears rubber dresses and keeps condoms in an altoids tin and lighters in her purse.
you can see her in the early hours of the morning
driving a dirty white car with peeling bumper stickers
winding ways back from beaches and stars and the moon
with her head leaning against the window, her hand tapping out an empty rhythm.