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So perfect in her imperfections, beautiful, wild and mad, surely there was a deity somewhere smiling on them.
Tell me a story she said. Make it tight, and dark.
She's quite taken. With the world and by another.
All femmes are fatales.
Fixing a hole where the pain pours out.
We saw these stars before. A long time ago.
It's too late. The masks are on. You aren't getting anything real.
A briefcase of stained notebooks and tangled earbuds from road trips past lay on the seat and it was now just the voices in his head.
You are the star I found in a new constellation and I trace your path on dark mornings.
Drink her in the moment and see nothing else.
Her fingers in his hair, pushed him back and watched him as he found her. It was much more dangerous with eyes open.
A little beauty was all they were searching for. Something innocent and beautiful.
Lie with me til the monsters go away.
When she was quiet like this, when she rationed her words, measured her thoughts and stared intently, he waited for the poetry to come.
She could say "Oh baby" a hundred different ways, but the night she whispered it through a lock of tousled hair, he wanted to stay forever.
In her city, in her bed, he made her speak in her own language. In shrieks and laughs he watched her lips, repeating his favorite words.
Calls from back home tell her through static and long pauses that she'll feel better. Then they both speak at once and say it's time to go.
For months she took photos of storm clouds then taped them to her ceiling during the dry season.
And the moment is gone; the moment is always gone.
She whispers close and lightly, cheek to cheek. He asks her to repeat, just to feel her breath again.