When the earth turns its back on the sun, a co-dependent lover seeking independence, the nicotine-stained flophouse wears the night like a bruise. Outside the window, gaunt shadows pace concrete like panthers, lost in life, hungry for hunger. A solitary light bulb keeps guard, and she holds onto a book like armor. Clock chimes mark his return to her bed, bourbon-tinged breath against her nape. And then, while held in darkness, vernal winds from her youth once again fill the small of her back, a dancer escorting her through time and space, ever aware that light returns and that bruises fade.
— Ron Gibson, Jr.