By H.R.H. Kane
you stand on the edge of a curb,
death stick between your teeth;
two-fisted, a heart in each hand with
red dripping rhythmically between fingers
and a freckled face framed by smoke-clung curls.
at once the fires of hell and hearth,
soothing warmth and scorching heat—
solar flares would descend to capture your flame.
so promise me,
promise me you won’t dilute yourself in her.
i reach out my hand, upturned,
waiting—
“i’ll have my heart back now,”
i tell you so that i may break it myself
like you asked me to.
Clamor 