The Motel

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A thin spire of smoke
drifts up, off the
cigarette hanging
limply from him
spindly fingers
over the side of the
starchy bed.

The threadbare sheets,
white and rumpled
by a tumbling of
regretful arms and legs
fluttering like birds
in naked trees.

The window ajar
to let forth the gusts
of chilly breeze
to clear the room of
stale cigarettes.
With his fingers the
zephyr moves through
her hair,
ratted and ruffled.

The soft hum
and neon glow
perpetuate from the
parking lot,
the motel's sign flickering steadily.





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Lia692 said...
Mar. 27, 2012 at 8:06 am
Nicely vivid visuals. Well done.
 
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