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POEM: noir

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I could write a hundred poems
about the look of your sleeping face
here where the wood stove waits
for fast-approaching winter

I’m on the floor in front of your couch
surrounded by books of poetry
kept company by the constant hum
of our modern age and the ageless
sound of your breathing

not even Sam Spade could unravel
the intricate mystery of how
we came to be here tonight
but as soon as you walked into the cafe
I knew you were trouble

Published in My poems Poetry


  1. Nice. I could picture this very well, great imagery.

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