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Mar 2015
I drew from your lips
a kiss
like a gun from the hip.
and we bled such mysterious blood.
Your body arched into a conduit
of divine magnetism.

And when I saw you,
my darling one,
maybe it was too holy for these eyes
and these hands, and this
crooked tongue.

I think
I was real gone then.
A phantom, something vague,
something obscured
by the wonder of many moments
deftly strung together by
the thin silk of enthrallment.

Or, maybe worse, concealed
by the magic show of happiness.

You were not the first angel I’d seen.
And this is not the final glass I’ll
raise in remembrance.
Written by
Jory  Chicago
       David Crum, Dreamer, ---, Pradip Chattopadhyay, AG and 12 others
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