I am your simulacrum

From breeching the fringe á-vis
Recklessly the woman lures the blind towards her
Plunging forward out of the Cimmerian shade
An unshakable acheronian
Adhering her hands on the looking-glass
Tapping finger by finger by thumb
As if incarcerated
She leaves a smeared countenance
And turning towards the swain
Her lips insinuate the gestalt of a softer word
Our glances happen to embrace momentarily
Then re-enter separate rooms

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