There are eight walls to the room. A green couch.
Tiles around the fireplace depict scenes from the bible
and her voice dropped in from another time. It's not
insistent, this distraction, this obnoxious presence
of desire. Manipulation of the mind. The hand reaches out
to nothing, confusing implications of a board game
with wine. What concerns me is lack
disguised as wanting, or the color of her shoes
under a microscope. Red to be walked on by.
It's not that she does not say anything
but that the red drips from her mouth
to her shoes and perpetually twisting time.
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