Aileen Santos


The ring that’s not yours
that belongs on his finger
no longer looks shiny
just dull and encumbered.

Melted snow in early spring
sudden and surprising
you’re black ice
slippery slopes
red light flashing.

Addictive, obsessive
Flushed smears of lipstick
tangled sheets stained
in a knot of deceit.

Your cologne plays on my skin
like a fedora on a phat cat
Buddhist prayer beads on a mantra
or a song I like to scream.

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