rose gold in crushed velvet.
silver rings in the pink light of sunset.
soft lips, but soft from something not soft, like brown sugar molasses scrub or 36 hours awake on adderall.
blood on your nail beds when you wake up, and in the corner of your mouth.
a wall freshly bared but with squares where the sun couldn't reach past the pictures that used to hang.
trying to re-color code your brain — a new scheme for a new time.
jean jackets and the smell of smoke almost masked by matcha tea perfume and soft wavy ponytails in scrunchies and dirty grungy shoes and the ball of your nose ring and silver hoop earrings and rosy lips vaseline and intermittent sprinkles through thick green leaves and pink blossoms while the sun is shining.
long white cigarettes at black wrought iron tables and switching from graphite to ink and a ripped white sweater and the same long walk and a flight home.
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