Timshel

April 8, 2017

Friday night you feed me
shots of bourbon and
dusty hardbacks of classic
fiction. East of Eden
reads to you like
gospel. Later I dig
my nails into the timshel
inked across your back.

Polaroids line the walls
around your bed; blurry
captures of a brunette
grinning in winter clothes.
Before you touch me,
you tell me she’s in Paris.

Come morning, your lips
still stuck to my neck,
you murmur the wrong name.
We wear the same perfume.

Lauren E. Milici

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