She meets me in the park, her skin glows like porcelain under the layers of transparent silk. The inherent contradiction of her thinly veiled Catholic innocence always allures me, it suppresses the resentment against a nation going to war while self-righteously moralizing over whatever Miley Cyrus did.
We seldom talk about anything that matters, I want her to keep her secrets to herself and the distance. No one intrigues me like her, she's a subtle magic trick and the hand inside my blouse after midnight. I always forget how much I miss her when she's not around.
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