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Her leaving, a bang of lightning striking a tree,
Exposing my raw soul for the world to see.
She was a burst of color in my monochrome world,
A single, vibrant flower, blooming while storms swirled.
My dam shatters; torrents of emotions drown me.
Naked, she stands,  
eyes fixed, lips raised toward sky—  
What if I’d taken the red-eye?  

Blood rushes, falls;  
knees meet ground, no bed at all.  

She glides,  a velvet chain,  
tongue where sweet honey rains.  

Her scent fills air’s swell—  
my soul under spell.
No one explained that best before

was subjective at best.

Instead they suggested

that you were lucky to find a man

willing to settle for spoiled produce

so close to the sell by date.



Did it occur to you

the rot might be them?

— The End —