his red eyes break the window pane of unconsciousness,
watching her walk away like some faltering mystery dancing off to superstition.
there is now the cold and some silver fingerprint on the mattress
a smell caught up in the corners like succumbing to the jungle and the etiquette of sinners
a mist of chemical blonde hairs hanging in the bathroom
the whisper of her anxious heel as she waits for the elevator.
the room spontaneously combusts, sulphur butterflies alighting on his flaccid corpse.
(a jewel of tinfoil from her foreign cigarettes, torture by black stockings)
sinuses crying out protest, he goes to the window.
the used up sheet dies on the carpet in a pool of cabernet.
the bruises of her manicured talons throb in the stillness,
the sweet roses of her breath across his chest curl and stab,
the lies, taken one by one, silhouettes of melody.
if he doesn't move, she is still here.

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