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Your skirt

is ripped leather
of a forgotten
diner booth

occupied
by a cold heart
and warm
hands

inhaling
the open
bar

so tomorrow
you’ll stumble
through the halls
with coconut Malibu
growing
palm trees
in your

gums
that push around
breath
covered
in artificial
mint

gums
that forget
my name

skirt
that forgets
my touch.






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HereSheIsThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
today at 4:39 pm
I can feel the sadness and longing in this poem so strongly, yet it's subtle and artistic, too. I like how you brought it back to the skirt at the end.
 
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