Wrapped in photographs she woke up on my floor,
lips stained with disdain for sugar pink nights.
Sprawled on receipts of days spent free,
she taught me happy, well maybe in love.
Always a better sentiment from a last night standpoint,
she would say merely more words words words
in search of a bed.
Maybe if she stopped with “I needs,” little details
could sweep her off her feet.
Turns out it helps, paint your hands blue.
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