Crescendo

She always kept fruit
in her coat pocket.
She liked the texture
on her fingers in
the cold and how when
she put it to her
lips it was like child-
hood on her tongue or
running a hot bath.
The smell would linger
until it simply
broke away, like smoke
leaving a body,
hidden in the faint
subtraction of sun.
This was the apex
of her distinctness.
Sitting, pink as an
orphan, in loyal
dark; standing out like
a frozen feather
in the muscular
trees.

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