January 4, 2004

It was a point and click.
No jam, no loading.
Just the sound of a mutual death.
Lips tinted red, like cherries, brush the words from your mouth.
Lip-stick stained glasses, littered tables, a rumpled bed.
That was sex without the love.
That was sex with the violence.
A soft cello storms into her dreams and she wakes from the mare and lights the candlewicks.
A figure stood at the doorway and smoke lit his lips afire as he spoke.

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