Moth Balls In Her Eyelids
A jam
On the phone,
Rave
In the weeds.
The remorse
Was never as easy
For her
A dictionary
Always one room away,
The thesaurus provided
Like thoughts of the next solution
To
The
First problem.
Language on the mind,
Loose memories
In
Parched taste buds.
The jam & rave
Were stiff glazes hung in
Her eyes
Like an old black-n-white photo.
Thick with moth ball scents
And
Not a bug
In sight
To be had.
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