He wrote insincere love letters that were genuine only the minute the pencil was on the paper

She could not turn him into a poet or an artist

So she diluted his memory like the others

Intending to shed him like a transient snakeskin but

His scent originated from a purple star and she could smell it in the streets

On other people’s skin, savage and indelible



Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *