she was hollow, metallic, rusty in places.
she shouldn't have been done being a child yet
and maybe, in her own way, she wasn't.
she smiles when she tells me what I'm made of.
charcoal, wires, grades she could never get,
and spare parts from my old Buick Regal.
forever raising the bar.
we sat in her car in the dark parking lot,
watching our breath in the February air,
and speaking of a time when we were made of porcelain.
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