On Fridays our lungs produce strong winds
as we banter back and forth.
We play tug of war with ennui
like a child in a custody battle.
Both of us wanting. But not really.
I light a candle to summon the ghost
of who we once were.
The television melts into the carpet.
The room stinks of mediocrity.
We sink into the corner of the couch
either fighting demons—
or embracing them.
About the AuthorStephanie Smith's debut poetry collection, "Dreams of Dali", is available from Flutter Press. Her work has appeared in such publications as STRONG VERSE, RED RIVER REVIEW, FORGE, POETRY QUARTERLY, and THIRD WEDNESDAY. She lives in Scranton, Pennsylvania.