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Click hereShe sits in black yoga pants,
A white knit shirt, and
A smile, rising behind the puff of smoke
From her cigarette,
As she trips the phone line fantastic
As she daringly discusses
Everything from phone sex to philosophy
With me
I hear her inhale smoke and the scent of me
From a thousand miles away from my misery
She makes me free
She,
Who loves me in a washable way
Rinsing out my self doubt with
The slap of her wisest words
Across my flawed, battle scarred self
Like a favorite frayed shirt
She can’t throw away
Loving its holes as much as its weave
Loving its wholeness
Even when it isn’t whole
So, I cling to her curves
Not because I need her
To dip my quill in ink
For me
But because she makes me want
To write myself
Into my very own story
Where the ring of a phone
Is start of day.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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