Tuesday, September 18, 2018

evaporate.


the splinter of ice is vanishing in her palm
hands of magic, hands of stretched
alabaster skin, hands with pale fingernails
that were once painted reflection pool blue

this shard is nothing of importance, your
scent of autumn as cyclical as burnt
leaves, as barren as an empty table, as
pitiful as division you contrived, the
remnants wiped away on her soft thigh



© 9.18.2018 heather brager

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