Process

April 7, 2007

Process 

She rested her head upon her arms,

Something she couldn’t have even named melted through.

The air grew lighter,

Softer,

Just like it always did.

 

But there it was,

The knowledge it wouldn’t endure long.

Eventually it would reappear.

Its form not always the same,

But often misunderstanding.

People often say what they assume she’ll want to hear,

But these words always taste wrong.

They smell of old men and fake roses,

Sticking to her tongue.

She’ll rinse it away with coffee,

And a cigarette to prod the guilt.

A turn of phrase,

Is spun again,

And the thoughts resculpted.

 

Her hands slide down to rest on thighs,

And a breath propelled,

Seems to make the air grow lighter,

Softer,

The way it always did.

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