she wore a plain dress
that had been washed many times.
the fabric clung to her in the wind
and showed the shape of her hips.
her eyes dark grey
like the sky before a storm,
eyes trying to find the way home.
she walked into a desert roadside diner,
the burnt coffee smell,
and the song on the jukebox skipping
over and over. high on the wall
the broken clock bleeding time.
the apartment above the diner was cheap,
one chair and a sink full of ***** dishes,
peeling wallpaper and buzzing neon
and silence hangs in the air.
love had surrendered to reason
he wanted her soft, quiet, and grateful.
she tossed the key on the bed
and grabbed the suitcase
she had packed months ago.
passion slow and certain,
the wolf in a dark heat
sheds the night. a flower
was blooming. she stepped
into the desert night alone
and for once it felt like freedom.