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His eyes are light traps, scratchy and shining. He lingers at all the wrong parts. (makes them right)

Monumental mess-ups chronicle their lives - loud and brassy as bells.

Being flawed and fractured under the harsh light makes everything seem so endlessly whole.

There is no ending because nothing ends, he whispers matter-of-factly to her.
Such a poet, such saintly subterfudge when he makes up reasons to do just so.

She knows he could quote vengeful bible scripture and make it sound like Nicholas Sparks.

His magic trick hands feel soft and hard, she makes his heart flutter at the drop of a hat.
Taking leave, every fragrance becomes spirtual. Bizarre ugly dirty beautiful beauty.
Blood feels faulty, even the sight seems momentarily blinded.

Victorian castles chill the bones of little girls in white nightgowns and combat boots.
Little princes prance in clothes much too big. Dead lovers reach out from bleached graves.
They are diamonds, broken bright bright shimmer skulls. Seraphins cry out when they collide.

Oh, but she finds those tossing-hair lip gloss girls to be so disgusting, thinks touchy-feely rancid.
She prefers the feel of phantom palms brushing against her spine. She seeks the sorrowful stare she finds in the eyes of mute horror villians.

She likes the wrong, and he is anything but right.
They tear at eachother, and like wet paper, they scratch off shreds. They suck the blood off old scabs, and lick bruises with wet sandpaper tongues.

He drapes old pearls down the creases of her arms, they can't believe they came from the sea.
Bugs commit suicide everlong, fizz fizz fizzz into the searing white of the lamp. They must be attracted to his eyes, she thinks, those eyes she wants to suck honey off of till they shine clean.

Never has he felt such true what-this-is. Neither has she, but she isn't whispering that to just anyone willing to listen. They play tick tack toe, talking about exes and murmuring oh's.

Nothing is certain, he says. Another saying of the week.





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