And she was high

as she jumped off a building,

flew through the sky,

and back into bed.

Cold from her absence 

and heavy from age.

She is tired, weary even.

I recall never writing that word

justifying limp drooping hands,

cinder block brown hands,

and no dry shoulder for her 

wet face.

Weary, this girl, she could

knead it dull from her back

but the feeling lingered

slinking its heaviness

around her neck to wear her

as a beautiful body

it had not.

On going, she continues,

coffee is no less than a vice,

a cigarette she shares with the night

with a smoker.

She knows the haste, the feeling of


She does not wear it as well,

as it wears her.


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