Lowbrow Love
Francesca Rainosek
Waking to the muted pastels
of an empty bed and wrinkled
sheets that smell of skin
and day old cologne,
the technicolor dreams have
strawberries.
was reminded of the time she
skinned her knee as a child—
the white tissue that slowly seeped.
Waking to the phantom smell
of him, milking the last bitter drops
of black coffee from an enamel mug,
she remembers
a cool night with lightning
ebbing away in the soundless,
traveling through a viable vein.
As she fell asleep on his shoulder,
pickup down a highway of red
and white cells.
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