Miles Davis blows soft electric blue.
Minor scratches in the vinyl
but the album doesn’t skip.
Her nose, lips close against my neck;
rhythmic breathing, tiny snore…
two empty bottles of Lancer’s rose
on the floor.
One arm behind my head;
one around her shoulder.
I stare at the ceiling…
Fifty years flash by.
Tomorrow, I will place a daisy
on her grave.
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