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  • Your voice rang to the tune of church bells

    that night. Its timbre exhausted, your eyes

    deep glasses of cognac as you chanted your spells.

    The words steeped in glorious lies

    that lit into me, cigarette butts branding my chest.

    I could feel it coming. I longed for it. Your story

    so unlike my own. Tar stained and tragic, transgressed

    by all. I smiled when you handed me violet morning glories

    as if that would shroud your little amusement, in love.

    The rouge on my lips, slathered on my cheeks

    Are you not seduced? Hours consisted of

    Aching Whispers in darkness for two weeks.

    Thirteen Days, sputniks hovering in glittering sky

    But the Fourteenth day, your note read goodbye.

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