Friday, February 11, 2011

Oh, Bea.

I found a cushion to curl up on.

The loveseat winced under

my weight. I turned its red velvet

burnt orange. There was a small fire.

A quivering blue core asked me if

I could name a few moons just to

pass the time. Before I could begin,

I heard Bea Arthur whisper from the

television in the other room,

I could vomit just looking at you.

Quiet. I wait patiently for the ice

that the weatherman blushes over.

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