Two-hundred and Fifteen: Bull’s Eye Compliment

You’re a ray of grey sunlight in the midnight hours.
I throw words at you like flowers, faith growing
every time you look at me. Drop by drop, you’re
giving back what he took from me. Usually I pop,
but with you I slide. I roam around the house,
darting thoughts about photographs and poetry
and wild horses. I am not a whore with you.
Bull’s eye. I use them for their lips, you know.
I use you as a pillow. And this is a compliment.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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