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your head dozing

easy in the crook of your arm,

you dream. Oh, you dream

of carved initials under tables, written because

she wanted to be felt, not seen. 

Of uncut fingernails, because 

she liked the sound it made on the piano.

Of bright green exit signs, just because 

they caught her attention. 

Of the blue seats of old BART trains, because 

they smelled warm and made her head hurt. 

Of her little orange tree, because

her oranges made her face pinch up, and that feeling, 

that feeling made her body glow. 

Of old books in expensive thrift stores, because

she liked to tear them apart and lie in the remains

of someone else’s love. Oh, you dream.

You dream of this wonderful, unseen

girl not yet a woman. 

Who you knew, but found too late.


she stares at old men who look like trees,

hunched over themselves,

eating lotus biscuits,

and she wishes she could be as lost as they are, in their

mismatched knee-high socks and newspaper-boy hats. 


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