20.32: same place

Four hands intermingle beside

Two empty bottles of

One inch old coke.

 

Lit candles sometimes pierce the room,

Filled with the ardent steam

That is my breath.

 

I smell my henna-coloured hair,

Like dry earth in the sun.

I don’t like it.

 

Still, I lean over in my chair

To un-hide from behind

The marble shafts.

 

I think how I could write a note

With something loveable

To say to you.

 

I’d hand it over when I pass,

Sweet dreams are on replay.

Like my heartbeat.

 

I swallow the last luke-warm sip

And slide into my bath

Of narcissism.

 

Perhaps you’re peering at me, too.

It’s easy to think that,

In tungsten light.

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