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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1441098
I wrote this on a fogged up bathroom mirror for a visiting Chilean man named Nico.
Grabbing that pair of pillows, I forgot
where I was. Pushing against them,
matching them with mine like a pair of aces--
who could have predicted such shuffling?
They curved, moist modest and unsure,
into a question. I paused, likened
them to fig slices, and bit.
© Copyright 2008 Mallory Lenore (fancyterrible at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1441098-Lips