paraphernalia

“zoning out?” he asks, but no, I’m staring
at those anonymous earrings,
this tarnished night adorned
with a forgotten souvenir of an adjunct lover.
posts pointed toward the window, deep blue
like the stones inlaid in that famous coffin. I
imagine his slender fingers placing them there
so he can whisper unobscured
something about her eyes or her body,
or drop “I love you”s
like uncertain girls pulling colors off a flower.
I want to slip them into my braid,
blue winks in the brown plait,
the way I slid that odd black hairpin
into the matted weave, claiming these
faceless women and wearing
their lust like babylonian finery.

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