She calls it her burial gown,
and it reeks of absinthe sweat,
cigarette smoke, and one too many
where cabs don't go that time of night.
It slips over curves it doesn't dare hide,
white skin it embraces into an ashy smolder
of regrets as deep as the way her men breathe.
wrinkled and thrown to the floor.
First appeared in Vine Leaves Literary Journal - October 2015