Poetry

Summer Bummer, 28 (180.)

Those still, small hours
when the future sits impotent
and the past beckons,
a sweet smile on her face
and lies on her lips,
the shadows thrown by her murmuring
“It’s better here,”
so I lean into her
soft embrace
and her arms are so smooth,
so clean in forgetfulness that I
don’t feel it when they
tighten and begin to strangle me.

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