You fingered the story of us
in a ribbon of uneven script
that soldered when I burned the rest.
The last line to go
I wore wrapped round my waist
like a song that hovered in the air
Days after it played
til it curled in the dustbin
pink nothing fringed with lace.
I wore wrapped round my waist
like a song that hovered in the air
Days after it played
til it curled in the dustbin
pink nothing fringed with lace.
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