She says she needs to fix her face,
returning in a whole new, revived mood,
exuberant, returning to the tales she told,
rattling them off
like a gatling gun.
I can hardly keep
track.
Where she goes nobody
knows.
Telling me she needs
another smoke
and goes back out to
the street
to where her hair looks even redder
under the red light
above the door,
and her eyes, so much darker,
I dare not look took deeply into them,
still I do, drawn finally
to her shimmering lips
which I cannot resist,
breaking into her diatribe long enough f
or a kiss, a deep one,
this thing not like the peck I gave her
after that Sunday at the diner,
deeper than any kiss I've had
with anyone in years,
a kiss
I get lost in,
as if I believe I
will never
get another chance like this,
her breath filling me
up
as if I am a balloon,
ever lasting as
Springsteen said.
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