Cupid placed his bow upon her mouth
and left it there for safekeeping.
She guards it with a quirk of her lip;
infatuation tucked into the corner
where she holds her cigarettes.
Sweet nothings perch
on the swell of her smirk.
She tips ash forget-me-nots,
blows smoke ring love letters
around frantic first times,
bittersweet goodbyes and
better things to come.
She blows a kiss: an arrow flies.

Nailah Matthews, “Cupid’s Bow”

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