peaches and planes

Her hands were always so soft, likepeach fuzz warm from the afternoon sunin springtime.The twenty rings spread across her tenslender fingers tap dance along the pagesof the book she holds.The planes are all meant to crash, she saysas she lets her brain march through the sandsof Mexico.Here coke and lime is warm next to her,condensation spreading as she questions whylife does little more than hurt.

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