Dushka

There was a woman I knew a long time ago, I still can’t remember her name. She maintained a slightly blurry focus, Left of center, out of frame. But I do recall she was a vixen in bed, So, I’ll just called her, Dushka. She had porcelain fingers; her tips were acrylic. I repaired her transmission. She taught me Cyrillic. I hovered above her most urgent desire. She needed a fix. I became her supplier. But her addictive passion slowly slackened with time. She went looking after greener pastures than mine THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR SOVIET SOCIALIST UTOPIAS