dried kisses --- Guest Post by Courtenay S. Gray

after Frank O’Hara

nighttime is not blue

it is a black olive with

a frosted window

a sommelier pours the

stars onto our taut shoulders

resting on amber flames

the heaving croaks of Bogart

whisper in my ear

from Paris to New York—I

left my kisses there

Courtenay S. Gray is a writer from the North of England. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Red Fez, Hobart, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com

Twitter: @courtenaywrites

Instagram: @courtenaywrites