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May 2012
You taste like a cigarette.
When you called my phone and asked me to come over
I could tell that you were smoking one, just by your voice--
That’s when my mind saw you, as perfect as a television picture

You and your utopian profile view
Your unshaven features are rough against my own porcelain face
I look up at you and wonder, how long until we are here again?
You and I, in this room, with these lights that are dimmed to perfection
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