It's been at least thirty years since I saw her
if I saw her then at all.
I don't know how it was that day:
Her hair was brown or blonde, long,
it swept her shoulders, short,
it got pushed back.
Her eyes were blue.
She was awake or asleep,
she saw me or she did not.
It doesn't much matter to me, now
does it?
The lights were probably bright,
the room busy and cold.
She was probably in pain.
The only thing I really know is this:
I was there before I left.
I was naked and small,
and her blood was all over me.
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