B r a d  R o s e



Listen Until Her Heart’s Content


Every couple of months, she sends me a CD in the mail. Since she walked out on me, about a year ago, the only contact we’ve had has been through these CDs, which she occasionally dispenses, accompanied by a blank note inside—blank, that is, except for the impression of her red lipsticked kiss. Once in a while, as I’m listening to the songs she’s sent, I hold one of her notes up to the light, and I can see the imprint of her lips on the white, frayed paper.  It looks like a pair of felonious fingerprints, or the cracked glass of a mirror that’s been smashed by a bloody fist. Although I know better, I’ll listen over and over again, until I can’t stand it any longer. Until I know that her heart’s content.





























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