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There’s a small tick
at the corner of your mouth
and it plummets into sadness
muscles dropped beneath the skin
stretching each and every year
to a sculpture wrought with slackness.
Here the lines are sharp engrained
like paper mache puppets
telling us just where you’ve been
and how the weather lashed you.
Shadows writhe on city streets but you hold the smell of mountains, sky so blue it filched the tint from your eyes leaving us staring into opaque hardness wondering what is missing: trying to find a meaning.
There’s a small tear in your side
we’re not talking about
the blood of Christ, but something similar.
After the Ave Marias
no holy water can assuage your thirst
and the two robbers on either side
simply take up space.
Maybe it’s my pathology that shrinks away from your engulfing attempts at control, it makes me wonder how you can have lived so long and know so little. There is something obscene in your schoolboy necessity to love with a love that encompasses annihilation. I, so afraid of being engulfed back away, keep safe distances and strong armour between us. There’s something to retrieve from all this fear, something to hold conferences around, something to attire myself in.
heat of desert sun
cacophony of tombs
my lost extension.