Every morn I wake
and in her
I scent
you:
hazel eyes,
for we didn't
meet to
trade names
in the car
I'd driven in
circles, at Skin
Avenue, before
I drove, in circles,
through you;
and I think
to myself
that, from now on,
I should take
the bus back
home.
This entry was posted
on Sunday, January 15, 2006 at 12:33 PM.
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