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(one night) David Bowie

I—(one night) David Bowie

tug my finger ends away from blue door you did, fingertip pulling fingertip up flights of stairs/fancy. looking lovingly to the room above, carpet torn away to thread, fleshing out smooth bare wood. riser to riser, height between wave and trough lifting smooth thigh balancing flamingo. leaning towards glassy pane from way up here. hand smudges window, hand clasps hand. spaces outside these fingers are heat-haze
lights:
the city
the rooms
and windows,

all-in-all, I give it an hour to know what makes you tick.

we could be heroes forever and ever

a suggestive radio breezes to prick up arctic-fox ears. a cheeky space between thigh and hip; eyes turned away changing colour, winking flavours of yes and no, this
and that.

some say rude—but with those eyes away, away I gaze time to observation:
drawing finger over coffee-coloured birthmark; a gentle
brown oasis on pale-desert skin. beauty is a contrast, you see, not that she knows;
she turns away a crescent moon;
a soft white field,
arching up to
night blue skies.

flopping down to a mouthful of ginger-dyed hair
spooning a sleepless mouth.

would you notice these things if you looked too long?

we could be heroes, just for one day.

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