Reflections of A Sunday

rose-quartz sky leaks starlight
from beneath a veil of ash trees,
smoke curls around the branches
and penetrates  the skin.
she smells of  3:30 A.M.
and of stale kisses.
nicotine is her middle name
as she finishes pack
after pack
of pushing down the pain.
rhythm and blues still pound
against the hangover of last tuesday
as the sun rises
from the cracks in the side walk,
an asprin laden road leading the way
past where the evening ends.
she is Katie-Scarlett
on an urban Tara
and it is dawn
and she feels different.
she is alone
and whimpering and alive
and waiting for the dark sky
to pour down upon her once more
and save her from rational thought
and the light--
she does not want to walk towards the light
because no one wakes up before 2 p.m.
and it’s in the rays of the sun
that she feels naked in her triple layered
paranoia.
it is in the sun that she is sober.
and it is in the day that she feels.

It’s the nights that kill her.