The feel of an empty stomach
at 10AM in a small, dusty classroom
in dim lighting
and the smell of cigarette smoke
on the skin of a soft, but deep-voiced male
with dark hair
and wide green eyes,
and emaciated, chicken-colored skin,
permeates the mood
of October,
or even just Autumn,
for a girl
with the past of a broken heart
for a skeletal,
sandy-colored boy
in a '76 Chevelle,
rusting from pale gold
to deep mustard
or crimson,
and he's flicking his cigarette
while she's cuddling her journal,
shivvering,
and staring at his squinted eyes,
intent on the direction opposite of her,
or maybe just the road.
 
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