She was a broke-back Lilly from a cornice north of any discernible proper noun, where stern mutts dig graves for unripe tangerines like me.
She never drove, though her eyes were always zipper-wide and travelling,
vowed to still bite my chain-smoke lips when we're 60.
But now the way she'd throw her hair like a racquetball drifts from that hurt you reserved just for her
and she turns to the dog-meat blues you wished she'd never be in the kitchen-sink you never clean
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The puzzle of love