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Mar 2012
Your Flame
Brushed against
The bottom of my Lampshade

Coils of Cloth curled off
Into the Air
And fell upon the Carpet

We both could smell the Smoke
Stacking up higher and higher in the Hallway
And slipping underneath our Door.

β€œOpen, Open!” You cried
And Oh, how I tried!
But the brass of your doorknob
Burnt my finger tips
Leaving me with no prints
To make a mark of my own
Corey Matlak
Written by
Corey Matlak
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