Inventory

Perfume that cries down your neck for you,
lipstick that will be erased without another’s.

Alcohol like water pools in your washroom,
contact lenses where no one gazes the color.

Dresses are a second skin to hug yourself,
shoes tread on pain to keep you on the ground.

Brush to sweep a face that reminisces bygones,
smartphone to illuminate organ spaces within.

Blues that fade into a solo tapping finger,
nights lost to a loss of words from searching.

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