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Bubbling from the duct at the corner of his eye,
Growing, almost breathing before it overflows.
Crawling across the surface of his crinkled face,
A glistening translucent marble tumbles down.
It follows an uneven path through the layered wrinkles,
Making its way towards the sagging skin beneath the chin.
The folds of flesh form their own sort of irrigation system,
Directing the continual flow of salty liquid.
A single marble drops off the edge of his face,
Splattering against a cool glass encasement.
Taking his thumb, he presses it against the transparent shield,
Smearing the small puddle, wiping away the imperfect.
He sits shrunken in his paisley armchair, trembling,
Engulfed by the cushions that gradually swallow him.
A floor lamp sits alongside the chair, giving off a dim glow.
He watches as tiny specks of dust filter through the weak light.
He slowly rocks back and forth in his chair,
Caressing the frame filled with the white-haired beauty.
With tear-clouded eyes, he memorizes the wisps of hair
Outlining her oval face and grazing her shoulders.
She sits on a park bench absorbed in a gripping novel.
Hearing a slight crunch of gravel and she glances upward,
And just as suddenly, her image is stolen,
Capturing the twinkle in her eye and the flush in her cheek.