She

Blood red lips kiss the mouths of stained glass bottles.

Bottoms up, seal it shut with a cobblestone cork.

It’s almost religious; it’s almost romantic

But let’s not get caught up in semantics.

Stilettos thin as nails, nails razor-edged,

Unphased.

No twitch or flicker of emotion betrays her.

She feels like a ghost and tastes like an omen;

My arms are open.

She’s worth the black cat hairs on my pillow.

God help me,

I’m in love with lovelessness.

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