Wordsmoker

I ripped the page out of the SPIN magazine and put it on my wall.  I was sixteen and the photo made me want to stare at it.  The man in the photo was lying on an Oriental rug and gazing into the camera.  He wore a heathered T-shirt and one of his arms was hooked beneath the back of his head. The sleeve rode up and you could see a hint of hair.  His face was kind and rumpled, slightly melancholy, warm like a just shed shirt.  He was not pretty.  He was soft.

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