Sweet darling.
You are not who I
who did not
think you would hurt me are.
Is there hope
for us?
Angel
discontented, sweep I that love you
into the dust
under your cosmos, and feel
everything or if
it please you nothing.
I am not an
angel but that you are an angel
as such that I
am, but I am not.
I feel you most
over the steady
fade of our unisonal drumbeat.
Lover, can I live
after you? You stay no more ethereal
than the fog
without me.
You are a
dreamscape in the heart of my corpse
and a flower in
the spine of my child
and love to me
now.
I am not without
you.
Am I to love you
who in me speaks a melancholy song
and whittles wood
into little shapes unnatural—
you who in
twilight speak in silence
and in the
morning hush my only sunrise
under the guise
of love?
Lover. You wound
me in the ways of spaces
between the
tiles of the backdrop and the rotting wood
constituting an
infrastructure.
I am not who
consigns to love you.
Painted lovely,
a paper dress could not suit you better;
therefore let me
go.
Make me feel better about myself, okay. Don't be mean.
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