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Tonight I smell of pink salt

and black orchids.

And my earlobes taste of wet metal.

My eyelids wait for your lips.

And the vein on my neck

trembles at the lick of your “goodnight”.

You’re probably still there,

Paris.

Taking too much room in your white bed.

Not knowing that you smell of sunshine

and green apples.

I have married your memories

but divorced your life.