your lips are a half-eaten cake.
there is sugar on your breath
that tastes like a saint.
my bed is stained
with maraschino cherries.
today is a spilled cup
of black peppercorns.
the girls across the street
stare at us from behind
all those wrought-iron fences.
one shows her teeth.
she holds a fork
in her clenched fist,
threatens the very idea
of you & I.
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