I haven't found my soul
mate yet, betty tells you.
she's holding an umbrella while
we both stand in the rain
waiting for the eight
o'clock train.
i'm sick of love, she says.
rubbing out a cigarette
with her red shoes.
weak love, fake love.
love disguised as sex,
sex disguised as love.
i'm tired of the game,
I want out.
you nod, staring up at
the long grey line of rails.
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