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Evening Indigo She looks away from the steaming kettle away from baked apples the warm spice smells of an old New England house the napping old house cat the old woman herself now the insider looking outside into the chill. No one stares back into her fading eyes no one no longer to covet her inner pinkness. She is a reverse peeping Tom a solitary welcoming party and no one no longer left out there to welcome home. |
Additional Notes:
I tried this with minimal punctuation, hopin the line breaks and line widths could
help with the flow and the sense. I really fought with myself about this.
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