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silk camisole
lace trims on v-neck dipped low and
she’s been kissed in every cinema in Brooklyn, but
can’t see the color of their eyes or taste those
vanilla forget-me-not touches, and where
is the maroon lipstick (gold glints off of polished metal) that
she found on the subway? she slides on the silk
dipped too low and feels almost lovely for six hours.
a cigarette dangles between her lips, and
lined gray eyes watch the streets. she smiles at cars and leans her
shoulders forward,
silk clings to her curves, dipped too low or maybe its perspective,
and throws cherry seeds at the feet of strollers.
static on the other end, thumbprints mark her screens. they last, smudged, unlike
her. cigarette dangles between her lips. ashes glow, falling,
they crumble on the gravel.
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