Once you were real

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Miss shooting the shit on your stoop, 
with a head dizzy from wine and a mouth full of good intentions; 
my fingers tracing the outline of your lips,
now gloved and in my pocket, rest.
But sometimes I swear I see your smile in the night sky,
through a shroud of cigarette smoke.
I do a double take. False alarm.
You always were the master of illusion.

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