>One of her arms hung over the chair. Salami in a butcher's window.
Pink and speckled, elbow folding up. Fingers red-tipped triangles.
Yesterday's eye-shadow: charcoal crumbs. Asleep, her head tipped
back. Clock on the table beside. Cheap and green. She dreamt of
birds. Blue, delicate things. Not fit for any world.
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>Christopher, I love your work. Always.