Nightlight by Sam Piccone Your lip, the big bottom one, cradling a coffee cup all the way past the boldface letters, has been leaking for a while. Invisible blood down by the chin; looks like a run -on Kool- Aid stain. Wet, like the avocado metaphors across the fragments of stories. Stories about the french fry crunch of brittle fingers, and how they have never touched anything strong, like a house of cantaloupe brick. Stories of fragile sweat, the awkward groping for ripeness in tiny beds, and how the more the teeth were bared, the less the skin was bruised.