we'll sit on the roof of the '69 chevelle,
legs intertwined,
curves and crevices illuminated
by a motel's flickering vacancy sign.

bellies warm with tennessee whiskey,
we'll stargaze, and i'll stop to
constellate our initials in the sky.

the cicadas will hum to us a waltz,
and we'll dance and twirl
and hold one another close.

then, dawn will come,
and a love kindled at dusk
will quickly burn out.

the sickly sweet viscous liquid
in our bowels
will turn to blood,

coughed up,
staining cheap,
thin sheets.

and i'll find myself sympathizing
with the red glow
of that flickering vacancy sign.