you're a lavender bride,
doomed from the beginning
with your naiveté,
writing poetry
in hot water that scalds,
pink toes,
the dark curls
collecting around your innermost part
now dotted with
bubbles like
salty sand water and honeydew,
an ankle over your knee
you think of me
and exhale,
your bellybutton,
along for the ride,
breaks the surface of the water
outside there is a lot -
an old man monotonously
moves his old bones,
dragging his knees past each other,
he is old
and that is all you can think
when you see him,
and you hate that.
but inside
there's not a lot and
you sweat sweet orange water
and lovers, like pennies,
stack up on the edge of the tub,
and I wrap corn husks around your wrists
and there are an unusual
amount of sirens out
tonight.
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