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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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