The hands of the clock point to the four and the twelve, darkness tells her it's AM. The burnt stub of the marijuana stuffed carcass of a Phillie cigarillo lies smoldering on the coffee table. Cheap tequila margaritas the reason for maxed out credit cards. Somewhere a faucet drips like Chinese water torture. The candles burn out, smoke rising like mushroom clouds left by atomic bombs. Her leopard print stilettos matched the bed sheets. But still, inky tears stain her face like black hair dye streaks down the porcelain bathroom sink...
while reading your poem the words formed a perfect picture in my head, thats so cool, for lack of a better word
