Marie Laurencin smiled with an Oriental purr.
she watched his collar stud
tickling her soft fur.
she leaned by his well-dressed bed
where he rested while moving fitfully,
very much in love,
his poetry filling the air.
his name was Guillaume Apollinaire:
he would die of a broken heart and a war wound.
she had all his letters to her buried
along with her in her tomb:
"merde, merde, merde..."
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