《Tropical Depression》Mountain City

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/The hottest yet, though my hometown is the coldest in the country./

Sore lips sipped on wine as I concede: I'm a fool for deciding that this can be a substitute for your midnight savory.

By February's flower festival, I pull off your clothes like petals of childish denial, of course he loves me not.

But oh what I'd give to be on top of you again; propped up on all fours like a heavy overpass. My hair swinging like telephone wires after a long conversation, and my skin, sweat-soaked on yours like the slippery asphalt streets shining after rain, sundered in silver lights- smooth on the tongue like how those recent sentences took flight.

Go! scream like city sirens that I mistake for music to dance wild with, enough to make your eyes flicker like neon signs at the release of white traffic of taxis- by the greenlight glow, Go! Go, Go... Then rest down my chest with an ear to hear the air rumbling through my ribs, like train passing through an underground subway.

Are you not an entire city that I visited over and over and over again? When others simply walked all over you?

With all that remembered, I sit here in solitude. Silent on my windowsill, sipping on my wine. The mountain city shining in triviality compared to my memory of your city.

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