Tennessee Romeo Blues

An alabaster neck and cinnamon eyes— the devil’s own playground.  Exposed skin yielding to softer touch and harder prose.  Caresses triggering supple submission to the heated spark of bedroom surrender. 


A brittle, temporary love.  Unguarded and unrepentant— roguishly stolen.  Hesitant concessions spread bare on a mountain featherbed where hell came riding with me.


Unstained devils pretending to be angels; degenerate angels pretending to be clean.   Both consumed with fleshy sin and whiskey-breath promises until bodies collapsed under the weight of pale whispers.


Just another temporary Romeo— another convenient character briefly written into her script as an ersatz replacement for more permanent heroes.  Not the heart she needed. Just the one she managed to steal.  And under quilted blankets holding naked confessions, that was enough.


It was almost heaven, there amongst the ridges of blue mountains.  But the music stopped long before the rising of another intrusive son sun.


Silence pounded.  Then, bodies. Later, darkness fell.  And that inky blackness of hilltop isolation forced retreat of a demon’s dance back across tarnished roads made of rapidly yellowing brick, bearing the embarrassing burden of damaged history.


Trapped blushing through a sleepless night—those claustrophobic hours when old ghosts tend to haunt.  And hunt wounded memory amidst the heated touch of culpability.  Because i never really meant anything to her.  But she always meant something to me.


And yet, no one cares about the balance of another unstable writer.  No one notices the desperate scribbles of another drunken scribe, penning analog urges screamed wildly into the depths of her digital void.  Words left as earnest warnings intended to fester, capitalizing CAUTION for the future lovers yet to come.  Because that eventual collision is barreling down, riding the fickle winds blowing up cold from the folds of her hidden holler.


Eventually, morning came before i did.  And brought with it the stubbornness of pride.  That stark brightness never allowed for compassionate exception.  Standing solitary in a mountain’s misty morning, circumstances eroded into unexpected re-evaluation.  And in the finality of that calculation, i was left doomed to run a companionless gauntlet of hard asphalt leading back north.


A pink summit’s majesty left behind in a rented rearview mirror.  Holiday packages left sitting unopened on a porch stained with regret.  And tiny piles of crumpled cigarette conversations.


A broken Romeo’s final ride.  Long miles burdened with the lasting sting of an Appalachian goodbye born in the ruggedly ridged mountains where eventually all hearts are condemned to beat blue.  And where all those empty roads somehow always end up pointing you back home, alone.

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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