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Prose Poetry: Flesh or Smoke

Flesh or Smoke


She stood as a reflection in the thin glass and saw nothing but shadows. Thin light enveloped her body and a breeze shifted her thin hair. Black to yellow, and then all back to mist. The window blew in lavender, fresh mowed grass, but never a reflection. Her face tilts back and forth revealing porcelain and ash. Never leaving the dark gaze she sparks up a Camel Turkish Royal. Now there are no shadows; just burnt brown, wafts of white smoke, and the mystery of the morning would have rendered her features. Inhale, and then exhale. Who created the slope of the nose and the valleys of the eyes, the astonishment that a hole was creating to simply utter nothings. Without the mirror she felt her body with her two hands, doing things that light couldn’t. I exist, even if the light refuses to give me birth. 

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