Slept
Crept in, then disappeared without turning,
whispered directly, heard it slant.
Could it end with a mere discarded hair,
I pulled back like a cure.
Ghostly shameful perfume for
my sick self-pity, the desperate medium.
Hollowing nicks scream an invitation to possession.
Outside the electric lamp splatters sallow paint on rainy pavement,
which is utterly meaningless.
Temperature: 66°F
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