Her lips like magic fingerpaint prints
on white dotted lines;
her teeth, the signature oasis of a dream
left buried in a cold plot on Sunset Avenue.
In street light she seems broken,
but what a smile.
Only held when you turn your head
[all 180 degrees]
does she look that beautiful.
Could a love letter cure the vows
sewn in gold and silver
around the second finger from the left
to the left and just above;
lay beating any hope, any prayer
that maybe he can hear her.
Though his clear deaf state is obvious,
love is blinding and she sings louder,
waiting for his echo.
But the only reply is a whimper from my lips,
a makeshift love song written for a widow
whose soft whisper was meant
for an earth bound skeleton,
yet the ears it reached were mine.
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