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Torch Song


Blue notes,
Red hair.
The strap on her dress
Hanging from her shoulder
Like Jazz trumpet smoke.
Lithe, bewitched and bewildered,
Her heart keeps pace
With the lazy piano.

Ripe tunes and ageless
Eyes clear like sunlight,
Scotch and water lips,
Half drunk
And fully aware.
A crooked smile
Tracing amorous lines
Into scribbles across her nerves
Electric like the dying lamps
At last call.

Secret music
In the private grey
Of night’s first passion.
Tangled sheets,
Discarded pages
Of greater songs
Yet played.
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The authors own nothing. Joss, UPN, WB, etc. own Buffy, the show, the characters, the places, and the backstory. The authors own any original plots.