Morning light
in your gin glass.
Blood behind my lip.
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Storyteller for hire
Morning light
in your gin glass.
Blood behind my lip.
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Snow dims the skylight.
My silhouette undresses
for yours.
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Streetlight
through venetian blinds.
Stripes on your belly.
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Listening to Tom Waits again,
remembering
how to miss you.
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Ice on your steps
in the morning.
How many last chances do I get?
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