Jordan Crider


It Was Raining

She reflects like a newly born widow
waiting to be pried open, dissected, and analyzed,
cause that's all she's worth now, oh well,

She drifts away on a closed storefront window
waiting to be contrasted and compared, washed of her dignity,
every last speck, rinsed from her fine glossy black hair,

She stares into her blurry future, remembering her clear past

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