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sniffing new perfume's whiff off somebody
we no longer do that
tracing wrists, collarbones and lacking fingers
we're no longer that old fashioned
sealing envelopes with wax, feeling the weight of unerasable words
we don't do that
mourning with black, filling coffins by poise whites of rose
we're far ahead of that
stealing kisses from children after barely tucking them in
writing on walls to remember
houses of glass and wax and mirrors and candy, a fantasy
we've grown so attached to novelty, to do things our way
we don't understand anymore how it's supposed to be ...
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