I watch her etching graphite moments in her notebook with tender unawareness. Pouting heavily, she rubs at her mistakes with a forlorn fervour. She wears her sadness like a starlet’s custom cocktail dress, it fits in all the right places, revealing only intrigue and the temptations of the viewer. I want to help her, but all of my mistakes have been carved in stone and laid as markers of my past, leaving me without faculty or future. All that I could offer would be ways to shade or bury and wouldn’t fit the moment without marking out its grave.

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