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| jenni |
and it seems the tires are melting into the blacktop ten more degrees will have them pooling like oil at my feet and it seems the sun has grown much larger much closer convex prisming brand new colors for me utterly and perfectly alone and it seems everything is pure blissful motion and energy the heat rising off the desert in undulating waves of gold lamé so i lay down and wait ecstatic and complete because death is nothing and this is not. |
| jay |
lame is easier to fit into haiku form than lamé is... see? |
| heather |
So pretty, so cool on the skin. Slipped over the head it just falls right into place. Gold lamé and black lace. So pretty. In front of the mirror, a twist, a swirl, a pretty little twirl. A little blush, blot the lipstick. Gotta hurry, time is running short. Just cut so right, hangs off everything the way it should. Practiced glances and coy looks were just too perfect. Time's almost up, better get going. Maybe a few more twirls in front of the mirror. Can't hurt.
A click, the door opens, "David...? Is that my mother's dress?"
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