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my eyes begged him to stay
even as his hands pushed me aside;
i chose to follow the advice of the more
the parts of his knuckles that were't red,
were white, and had little beads
of bright crimson blood
forming on them.
my lips still felt slightly swollen,
but so did my right temple and it was
throbbing hard enough to make me question
where exactly in your body a heartbeat came from.
the room was cold, even though it
was the middle of July and every window was open;
the sun couldn't seem to be able to thaw out
the ice that had frozen in his pupils.
the dandelions i had picked on the walk here
were scattered and flattened into the cracks
between the floorboards, their bright yellows
slowing darkening to a dull, ugly brown.
and when the sun had set, the dusk brought on
the relentless demons that hid in the night
that we both feared yet continued to feed,
stretching our necks for them to sink their teeth into.
i thought maybe there was a softening to the
rock hard grimace of your face only to realize that
my eyes were playing tricks on me in the low,
flickering light of your lighter.
it was when you asked for the last cigarette in my pack
that the vinyl we had bought that afternoon
screeched to a halt and white static from those
second-hand speakers filled the room.
i stood, my knees less-than-stable and hands
far-too-shaky, and walked to the door.
i turned, expecting at the very least a salutation
only for you to blow smoke in my face.
i closed the door on the remnants of your french inhale.
yeah don't know what i was goin for or where this poem was headed
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