Your allegiance to the night, that age old

song and dance that you've been selling since time began.

There you are, right where I found you.

Dipped in creamy moonlight, mojitos and shopping sprees.

Your painted oval mouth forming the perfect fit.

Staying in hotels on your downtime claiming you never have any

but then I saw you getting cozy with coat check boys, etching your name in cream city brick.

Painted nails, dilated esophagus, stretched thin morality.

One heel on the ground and the other up-up and away over his shoulder. 

Your groans, like some far out trigonometry that connect on dry erase boards. 

Slant eyed erections. 

Dogfighting for your turn on outdoor patios with sprigs of mint, chilled and formulated.

A rib cage tattoo of little pagan symbols and a crescent moon.

Always a crescent moon. 

On the drive home you stop at every single yellow light instead of just rolling on through.

You're running on empty, blank and depleted reserves. 

Your face illuminates by the check engine light. 

Ray Strickland


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allets's picture

Night Portrait

Great title, wondrous execution - reality based write - not real positive for women but true - and vividly painted. U should be writing novels 

"...A rib cage tattoo of little pagan symbols and a crescent moon. /Always a crescent moon..." - Miraculous  :D



ray_strickland's picture

Night Portrait

Thank you for the kind words.

Means a lot.