Water From Comets

The brown haired floozy could breeze through the city on a calm summer evening because she had been on every sprawled out back-road and highway there. Windows down all the way, panty strings rimming the edge of her jeans. She hits on a small cigar and passes it this way, her idea of culture as if she were a beautiful Mexican with paints. She starts talking about last year and that job she had for a brief while. The span of her time in that job was brief but she went on about the fine details like the smells and lighting and her sense of self. For a while the drive is familiar. Superdrag is playing. Soon the heart-rate mellows and the pink haze of city lights are way in back. It is hardly noticeable when exactly the cd stops and the humming of the road takes over. Wordless song. The color of stars smear the sky spilling the water from comets on our faces.


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