He hesitates, tasting

the words you might say.

So before he can go

you do.

Beat a retreat.

Pull back

your soldiers

of word and sword and pent-up emotion;

Pull back your soft sweet body.

There's musing on the faces

of the winos and the waitresses and

the loveless all around.

That's scary, you realize.

That's scary.

They're always thinking.

So I think I'll do more than retreat--

and you withdraw.

And it feels good.

And it smells of hiding in veins.

And it is okay to not be there, you

tell him later.

But he doesn't understand.

He couldn't, you guess.

There's no one with arms wide enough for your little-girl soul.

The End

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