It’s not that I’m clairvoyant.
It’s just that I know how this will end:
You become entangled
In her hair, her clothes, the way she smells
Her mess of tears and mascara.
Polished fingers holding an organic cigarette
Grasp you vice like around the throat
(or is the grip around your loins?)
It’s her chaos that attracts you; chaos
With which I cannot hope to win.
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