Tonight prose borrows my hairbrush
And my favorite red lipstick
So I tell you the angle of light
As it captures your radiance
Is true indigo

Last night prose wore army green
So I took you to the bedroom
I pointed in the mirror
Look, I said, a matched set

I was afraid love folded up
Would have sharp stinging corners
Love is slippery, though
And made of honey champagne

Prose is sleeping on the couch
With yoga pants on
She’s been stood up
Because this is beyond words


About pantsinspace

I'm an inch deep and a mile wide. Not literally. But literarily, sure.
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