Sunday afternoon-- edit 3

[Truerenigma]

Starbucks on Sunday afternoon

She wears a ring of round cigarette burns
and three-quarter-sleeves:
a red bracelet baring her state.
Chatter, tinks and samba swirl
around two empty café cups
as I crawl into her brain, a red-faced
deep-sea diver, exploring

crevices that surface in eruptions
of blood. Cuts turn to ruby
lips, spitting bitter tastes
to tiled ground: one mouthful less
for her to swallow. The bile spreads
under my chair, and trickles
out the door.