the spring motor under tension
The room is a music box of
limbs, hair,
and sweat. I watch
the bedplate, wringing wallflowers
out of my sleeve. When she makes
eye contact, I bite my comb. A punch
card borrows notes from the shy
part of the smile. I spill clumsy stutters--
there are no jewels trapped in the gears.
She turns, shadow marking her absence.
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