the greening canvas runs into the golden locks
the waiting art staving off satisfaction, the hands keep staring at
the hands dripping glitter on
the breasts, blocking out
the eyes, keeping the crust of
the brush between the fingers the
knuckles growing larger
perspective matching her grotesqueness– your hatred of the blonde beauty, her thighs and legs missing, the obsession with touch permeates the friendship
deepening upon the couch, blinking in the glitter, resting in the sternum cavity and winding into the deep shadows
as you’ve expressed,
there is nothing quite like her perfection.


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