Slipping through your bejewelled fingers

asking for the face of Melinda, make her like you'd make the swirls in coffee cups

You know I don't drink coffee, thought I'd found out why, something about acids and acids


I swore I still knew


back then when Melinda sat opposite of me, in the coffee parlor, coffee machines steaming

her face in the reflection of the light was more vivid than my eyes at night

shimmering, shining blue strains across the ceiling as I count the shadows


I know now that she never was


Cannot split her by the seams, cannot tear her notes apart, cannot find her hand

at night, slipping through her bejewelled fingers

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