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by Rob Littler

She always met men when they
Were having their best day,
Men with tales of adventure and plans
To escape, immediately after this escapade.
Men who just inherited a fortune and she
Has been chosen new Queen, again. Her life
A fiction teetering on the façade just
So long enough until that delicate moment
When she presses for more: Tickets. A
Phone number. Hotel room. Coitus. She knows
How to close, lulling along letting the liar spin.

It always unties like this—the knot
In her stomach, when those once intense
Eyes no longer meet her gaze, sustained—
Sustaining, the thrill of immediacy destined
Only to exist in the dim little light cast
In fading rooms. Preferred, however,
To the rate of evaporation whispers have
In full sun.


Posted on 09/03/2015
Copyright © 2021 Rob Littler

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Uriel Tovar on 11/06/15 at 10:08 PM

The smell of stale beer came to me while reading this. Loved it.

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