Sleeps with her books,

her cat,

her rhetoric.

Imaginary men steal

one at a time into her bedroom.

Perfect men

who stay lodged in her memory

until well after she’s awakened.

 

She’s cool,

smokes and flirts

dirty

from the corners of her mouth,

suggesting she’s more

of a woman than a child.

 

We met over a plate of cocaine

before Christmas

and swore we’d steal away

to Mexico and marry

in the spring,

Listening

to the right bands

and speaking philosophies…

 

nude on a couch.

Pressed together

like change in my pocket.

Our secret incorporation intact,

coffee and scotch whisky

made her

the most amazing woman

in the world

for a while.

 

Now she sleeps with her books,

her cat,

her rhetoric,

and an unending train

of imaginary men,

none of whom

are me.

 

 

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