She is shapeless.
She is motionless.
She is the finger print of an angel,
the only evidence of a reason to exist.

She is imageless.
She is invisible.
She's the dirty pebble
with flecks of silver in her cracks.

Hers is a face I can't remember
and an expression I won't soon forget,
as she sipped on the wine
I'd spiked to preserve her impeccable form.

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