You’re stone cold.
Yea, like a fox,
But that’s not how I mean it.
Behind you
a plane hangs
In frozen sepia skies.
You’re sporting wide bell bottoms
A black blouse
Tied together neat
with a gold buckled belt.
You link arms
With your best friend?
Judging from your face,
it could be a stranger.
Her dress hangs
Past her knees
Ripples of a frozen breeze
Dragging at the hem
I could say you were a statue
Stone smooth skin
With hair sculpted
A deep black bob
Behind you
in foreign sepia squares and circles
A sign forever bids you to return again.
You’re stone.
You are cold.
Your face reveals nothing.
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