Because she's living in hesitation,
muted in July's humid air,
brewing possibilities beneath her skull,
itching a bruised bug bite that has
long since disappeared
he feels her submission, her knowing
of her own body, her breasts
now resting in cups bought by herself.
He once teased her for her metalled mouth,
wired with tangles of silver, shining
pathetically as she spoke.
Born into a neo girlhood,
she stands in the driveway with keys
poetically dripping from her hand,
that she dangles like bait.
He sees the vision of a woman he could marry
or possibly break, in his obvious
reluctance to admit of a time
he held his first intentional bouquet
and tossed it under a bush
when she casually walked away.
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