The Classic Nude and Noir

Standard

She sits and stares and I do too.

Outside, the billowed silk is cold:

the cubic art with Scottish lines, drawn hard.

But these – the light, the sound, the uncertain story –

seem so wrong. They wake up longing;

they brush a broken wing against loneliness.

And desire.

Let me in, they whisper to us. Let me through.

There is no need to stare at her.

She hears it too.

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