The door is sage green, reads 'coffee room,' and the barista has milky white nails.
America sounds under the salmon pipes, with the voices of six conversations.
Still, Bold Lips ignore.
They speak instead, under indigo'd eyes and bleached, coifed hair. Bolstered by turquoise and skin-clinging tights. Livened by a sugary take-out drink.
But when she vacates her spot, held regally near the yellow-brick framed window, and just next to the tray of skim and straws,
When she rises, she is missed for her quips,
not for the red of her bright, daring lips.
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