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Surrealism

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Her seams were painted
with the petals of the peonies
that laid delicate and lifeless in her bedroom

Her eyes appeared bruised
by cobalt shadows to those who had just met her,
those unacquainted with her eccentricity
and her hair that framed her rosy cheeked face

Never was there a day she would not hope for rain
because she knew it was intended for dancing in
and that if you chanted French lyrics under your breathe
it felt like you were in Paris and in love with someone who was good to you

She had fragile knees and skin like buttermilk
and she fought permanence but desired nothing fleeting
when she drank blueberry tea her nose would twitch

She spent hours from behind the apartment window
taking occasional bites from Chinese takeout
and created elaborate nonexistent sequences for each sidewalk character

Some days she would
let her limbs burn
from the dew left on
the grass of the park
at midnight

But no matter the dreams she kept of webbed skies and stars
and floating to another place with filtered light through tree leaves
and the sounds of a crackling record playing her mother’s favorite song

She would continue to walk
on the line between
reality and a place hidden between the maples
that only she would not acknowledge
ceased to exist



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