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How her eyes, the deepest olive, marbled

How her eyes, the deepest olive, marbled, and pitted-black, became ripened over the days, making for nothing more than holes, pumped full of fluids I’ve yet to taste, rotting, breaking from that beautiful green to hardened brown, and, oh, how her ‘lids, once purposed, now hang, as though caught between falling and waking. How I loved her, for a day, and I still do not know if the Moon’s come to signal the end.

where the panting fan breathes, cool, on skin
when the silence of the mouth leads to shoutings of a mind so lost in thought

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