She whispered, "Once upon a time someone in the farthest parts of the lens thought I was beautiful. And they made sure that the rest of the little hummingbirds knew that the silence in between my teeth and the shadows underneath my eyes were the most appreciated part of humanity."
She puffed on her cigarette like there was nothing left for her to forget. She pretended, every afternoon, like she didn't remember the way that you smell; she remembered.
She was running on a tight enough schedule with tight enough jeans so that you were something of a strangled memory underneath the cables and the bungee cords that manipulated your shape and your size until you were understandable, recognizable, and comprehensible. But, truthfully, you are still too beautiful for her to imagine.
She's got wine in her hand, nowadays, instead of a cellular phone or a purse. And, when the room is spinning in the darkness, she kisses your imaginary lips and wishes you goodnight in a thousand words from a million years ago.
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