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When lovers die,

where does their love go?

Can anyone find it,

or is it lost forever?
The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late
A machine cannot fix itself.
It needs a mechanic,
a tech,
an expert-
an intellectual with the drive to learn,
an idiot with overconfidence and
a streak of luck.

To be rewired.
To be rearranged.
To be powered off.
To be plugged in.
To be refilled.
To be cleaned.
To be fixed.

A machine must be maintained
by someone else.

I am not a machine.

So why do I expect others
to heal me?
And if I were a machine,
where the **** did I place my manual?
when my voice
can no longer
be remembered

when the feel
of my touch
has vanished
from your memory

when you cannot
recall the joy
or bittersweet
pain we shared

then that will be
when you have
broken the obsession
that is "US"
Writing poetry is like making love:
if you have to force it, stop.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 Aug 13 Adam Tørch
Kalliope
You were a dog trainer
I was a wolf-
Yet you were shocked I bit you
And I had the audacity to whimper when you ran
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