Faint Lines on a Map

 
We gather our longings
to outrace the howls of midnight
when hurriedly lit cigarettes trace
bitten intentions and half-chewed regrets.

The flavor of tomorrow has faded
even after you claimed disbelief
in muttered curses sprinkled
by the gypsy woman. You know the one.

She kept one bare plate to display
the bitterness, while grey butterflies
flickered above – small colors dried
and dropped, crumbled underfoot.

Impatience wore a cape of black,
a ruffle of fur and fangs nipping
then snarling at abandoned soles,
overturned shoes unthanked for the latest

in our faded journeys.