Burned

Her lipglossed butts glowed from the ashtray and I could still hear her giggle from New York City.

She said she wanted to be where the lights pretty I'd guessed poetically. I shouldnt't have let her throw down her curling iron on our hardwood floor because it not only burned a perfect line against the grain but it remained to haunt me every time the roughness caught my sock. She was wonderous in everyway and I hadn't done anything good to deserve my time with her yet I felt robbed by her runway.

Olivia had been, at one time, mine but Johnny cash's ballad of a teenage queen proved wrong in my instance; she hadn't returned to me.