Saturday, November 30, 2013

left with you.

I am left with an angled jaw, 
the scent of a fragile neck, 
and bruises that wound my skin and lips 

I am a garden 
with sowed memories 
and buried songs

I have visited the country of sunsets 
where nomads without language live

still I write to you 
as there is nothing else to do

the night leaves tiny leaflets of light 
and I carve plastic prose to keep them by my side 

for there are days when am so alone 
that your absence fills 
the contours of my being

and then on certain days 
when you are as weak as I am 
you visit me 

for a moment am your home
of treasured wounds

I am left with you

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