*for brownin*
neon tends to
paints sweat and sugar
at the rise of your cheeks
your eyeshadow
an opaque sauce left
by the deft absence of light
and Memphis soul
but even over
the mass preached by barflies
who've seen mayors turn like leaves
and wear the graffiti of decades on their brow
your look towards me speaks easy
like whiskey after a deliberate pour
delight on the house with a steady burn
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