Long shot, my ghost in the dark,
harnessed crazy like he knew its name.
We are unknown and in these known places
we meld. What was once easy has become
convoluted
with speaking.
He says he'll never love me,
like a taunt.
November, I say, Comes on like
a steel bit
and you'll bite. I swear it.
Smoke crawls from his eyelid
and smoulders upon an unshaven cheek.
Cruelty rides in every word he doesn't articulate.
Dark more than deception, it is description.
Petty, pretty things never persist, Pet. He
is neither.
Hair blows black-wild
and with stained fingers
shoved far into trench coat pockets
he mutters at the streetlight,
Nearly Halloween.
Originally published October 2006 - "Supernatural"