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Afternoon Alone - Kira Rosemarie

Of coffee dripping down white ceramic

Distance between seconds stretched like skin

Bruised to cover the drum-frame of my breaths

Ribs crack,

Bones hollow, empty of marrow,

Vines push through where sinews used to twine,

Unused, while reading

Quietly on the couch

Shifting into a new kind of body—

A new space-time,

Keeping my dream-lost diaphragm

Tethered to my fingertips

Only drawing her back

When the self-entitled sense of melancholy

Drips back behind my nasal passageways

Sifts out the back of my neck,

And pulls me back toward a lukewarm sip


Kira Rosemarie is a writer and artist from Kentucky currently living in South Florida. She writes short fiction and poetry and was last published in Indiana University's Canvas Creative Arts Magazine.

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