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by Lana Bella

We were languid pulses
pulled by wreckage. I,
an angle at conflict, scuffed
about with a milk-warm
tea cup, toppling over
the echoes that have all but
dissipated. Whereas he
was driven by an impulse
far more pure: geometry.

Dawn after dawn,
I watched him clip on
his name tag, throw in
the side pocket pen, ruler,
a protein bar, count the pile of
bitter years he had emptied out
the night before
on the mahogany dresser,
trace the creases of
my disillusion
with his sinking eyes.

Copyright © 2016 by Lana Bella

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