His nails smell of oranges,

the grass under his arches,

the darkness of the loam.


She feels the weight of his eyes

in the walls of the room,

the heaviness of his breath.


She hears her heart pause,

the steps leaving his room,

the emptiness of the bottle.


She sees the flexing of his fist,

the void in his pupils,

the crookedness of his walk.


She can already taste blood,

the whiskey scented sweat,

the coldness of the night.


She sees the flexing of his fist

and she knows,

she knows,

she knows,

his nails smell of oranges.

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Senseless by Melissa Summers-Day