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there is some soft space of you always tearing into me.
black claws, coffee laden, drunk from the spirits.
I, a manner of scents ascribed by you.
tallow of night, drowsiness of hands,
wallowing in the redolent shame
of past mistakes.
we can fjord a victory. green-lanterned.
don’t mind the clocks.
we, relic of timepiece.
ticking lavender and bourbon and truffle salt
haloed in tobacco screens.
bitter, rapt mouths.
in a disheveled state, desired stupor
for fumbling hands,
the grief of desire
we know what the guilty do.
these streets were chosen.
we posted the lanterns.
oil light gills us.
I do not even regret the time, just the departure.
I am still filled with musk.
separated, only, by this death between us
can either survive, or meander on.
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