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See You Around

Saoirse Killion

The white flowers have petals

that open slightly, like the lips of those

whose own thoughts amuse them.

Hems of dresses sticky with pine sap,

lace collars opened one button — 

summer nudity conceals itself

from a lover whose skin,

once hot to the touch and sea-salted,

is now wrapped under woolen coats

ashen musk for only those inside.

He may only live a few doors down,

but the doorway to that old room

where he once crushed your miniskirt 

and unclasped everything, skinny arms 

warm on your back, 

draws its shriveled curtains closed.

This is an infinite intermission, you write.

Oh it’s just like you to perfume a corpse.

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