those awkward kids that adopt
steely looks and
treated hair
to me betray the simple past
they spent like moments
of a waking dream, or
memories of something
new, deja vu, so it seems;
i remember one,
sprinkled, pimpled, freckled
cheeks,
now rubbed to
glisten under
neon lights,
her hair was chopped, a mop
now smoothed into
locks of fine thread
weaving around her ears and
neck,
that innocence that
hovered about her
stained red lips, now glossy hard
a visage, adult, sophisticated
but mostly
just a fleeting image of
decay
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