the lovely flame that
breathes from my cupped
palm on your shoulder, that
bursts into an emblazoning
fire along the nape of your neck.
each smoldering of ash is a
gentle caress.
the blossoms of heat are
a pulsing beat, of life
that sprouts along the
length of my deadened hand;
giving it breath,
breathing blood into
the cold, blue fingers
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in this winter room
i think i finally understand
the language of loneliness
like being wrapped
in a strange mother's womb
born to an unknown land
estranged.
as i part the curtains
so moist from morning dew
heavy with yesterday's sorrows;
and pregnant with tomorrow's
i cry like a baby
(i am)
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with these fingers i
press you close to my
chest.
marry you
to my body.
we are moving to the song
but only i sing along.
and if this voice of mine
could become lost,
then it has.
(in you)
tiptoe on through.
i won't hear you
even if i listen
closely.
because my ears
are so blind
to your whispers.
will you ever understand
how deeply i have fallen?
no hand upon the ledge,
to pull me over.
only daggers aimed directly
at my vulnerable
heart,
(i bleed)
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the lines on your palm
are traces of the life
you'd led.
the life i wished i had
(but did not)
tell me,
how you dance through
the light
that filters through
motes of dust and alights,
so gently on you.
my precious butterfly.
your fingers so
soft like
( )
fluttering wings against
my cool skin.
may i dance
with your fading shadow?
me, living breathing flesh,
and you -
lifeless silhouette;
yet so warm to my heart.
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she is a painting;
an angel.
the nape of her neck billows
like the curve of a swan's wing
and yet you can still
see the shadows of despair
that whisper along the
tendrils of hair
looped around her throat;
a noose.
her mouth is
curled upwards into
soft gentle creases,
but her eyes are not smiling.
she is despairingly beautiful.
i know she is dying and yet
it seems like I am the one
suffocating; as we
stand there in my kitchen
looking at each other.
we are in the same universe
but
not in the same world.
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