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Ghosted | Holly Fine

He told me the truth using no words,

leaving me to walk alone at twilight.

Enveloped by choking air,

I saw colors in peripherals

like the sky incurred brain damage. 

 

Romance was like shopping.

He was a floor model, but I never

needed cellophane wrapping.

Impatience made the selection,

loneliness swiped the card,

hijacked by hope that the attributes

of someone are what you are buying. 

 

I miss the old days when flames burned

out revealing caps twisting in hands.

It was an event, spectacular like being

an audience member at a firing squad. 

The art has been broken and

replaced with staring at a screen.

 

Holly Fine studied history and creative writing at UC Berkeley and lives in Los Angeles. She has studied poetry at UCLA Extension Writers’ Program.

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