We Kiss Goodnight.

Snow on the frosting. Cool reds beneath. Burnt sugars turn all sorts of funny shades. Watching the cook with no oven. Lightning strikes the cigarette rested on one lip, so gently held by a polka-dot of spit. Flint for the torch. Baking with the accuracy between thousands of degrees. Blood from mascara caress flower and yeast trailing behind warm milk from a suctioned teat. Enough time had to admire the soft conscience lulling through a distant recollection of melody, pentameter, and rhythm. Mothers voice or the silence of a dead angel. All things holy in this room.

You will not find any crystal in this square kitchen. At best, a well kept plastic hand size receptical from a birthday party of a friend in youth, of course not ones own. Men would be found setting a spell on the floor next to the open fire. A warmth all dignified souls can muster the courage to admire. Ask not for any pleasantries from the camera behind those glass slipped eyes. Rest comes for its claim to the weary and our polite body falls forward into a sweet watery goodnight.

Each breath a crumb may slide down a cavernous trail to the entrails consumed by bile and acids. She knows where her fat will lay while we dream of the light.