Remains of Primitive Communication by Kristin Fouquet
Washed with the residue of your yesterdays
I know better than to share the song with you.
So, window clenched tight, until I am free.
I know I’ll never emerge a woman,
But I’ll be back, tasting the seasons as a critic.
Should I read the reflections of pages knowing,
My lips dance to the fondled verses of my vocals.
I will always be a liar.
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