An eyesore reopened a wound
through her downcast eyes.
It shredded my self-esteem into a forest
of inconsistent text messages.
She loves me.
She loves me, not
She loves me enough
just enough to
wrap a knot around my neck.
A late-night text changes her mind.
She appears at my door,
shaking off her long coat,
exposing her thigh-high black stockings and her pale, nude body.
We made love to a song she’d heard in 1997.
(© 2022 AC)
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