by Lacey Smith

Your face is a circle of familiar colors
like the seven different ways I remember
your touch. In my skin, you are a
deep-set scent.

Baby, I don't know if I can keep you
like a secret in my pocket for long. I
already have not. You are most definitely

This writer's block is like
a cheesy movie montage.
This music is just perfect.

You were just perfect the way your breath
coiled around my skin, strangling all of my
self-control. Your words sit in my ears like
an insect flapping its wings, so constant.

This is all in repetition, a persistent
sound without a source. Your face is a
flickering memory, in and out of
focus. The sounds oscillate.

Here is this: behind my eyes you are
becoming this memory I cannot murder,
this tuning fork progression like everything
is silent except for these words and the
sound of


Posted on 01/08/2005
Copyright © 2021 Lacey Smith

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