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The Scent Of You

I wish my hands
didn't smell of you
this morning

the dent in my bed
made by you
empty as a bowl of soup
devoured by a peasant

like his bread I am broken

before being consumed
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Katie Rhodes 18 April 2007

Hating something we love is the most confusing thing that our heart does to us, and you sum it up well. Good write! -kate

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