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she combs her hair as if
each strand contains a piece
of a prophecy:
noble and purple and green,
surrounding screeching trumpets
with the sublimity of how
her mouth moves
when her words move into me;
each strand forcing me into a
rainbow-colored shoot
with twisted limbs
landing in a room of plastic balls,
a seraphic wonderland.
each and every strand
of which i could count those very nights
i spend kissing that beautiful,
adventure-ridden mind.
