She puts on all these old records
I haven't heard in so long.
Lets those joggers hug her hips
like a Sadie Hawkins out of time.
Looking back over shipwrecked shoulders
with those sunken pirates' booty eyes.
A lone cigarette beside the bed
sending out signals to faulty synapses.
A firing squad from the bathroom
behind the failing privacy door
with a hissing toilet off the chain.
A backed up engine from the waiting
parking lot outside.
That way she makes you fall in love
without touching her.
Forgetting all the names of those tired gods
and obligations I've tried so hard
to not forget.
A magician of skin
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