Curls in her hair, ringlets of fire; warm, inviting and tight the way his hugs used to be.
Violent femme’s satin stain upon her voluptuous lips, the ones that never missed at enticing his many erections throughout their disorderly 21-year escapade.
Clay dried upon her aging hands, holding the statue of a man, his wife and his daughter,
Still wet and open to destruction.
Her heart, oblivious to pop’s stance and the blows he had meticulously prepared: warm and loose, depicting the everlasting bout with his love for her, feigning complete impotence.
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