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i could write poems about
the museums kisses we imitated
from paintings hung
in front of us,
about the sudden 4 am drives
because we couldn't wait
for the morning
to see each other,
about our 5 am musings about
not repeating
my parent's history
of falling out of love.

but no, darling,
because this poem
is about the pretend good night kisses
that do not quite touch my skin,
this is about the 4 ams
spent waiting for the sound of your car
or your footsteps
to the front door.
this poem darling,
is for the sound of my heart
breaking the silence that lasted
'til 5 and 6 ams.
this poem is about us —
becoming just like my mom and dad.

this poem is about the songs
that ran out of tune,
and the thousandfold letters
that spilled that day you left
and the poems i was never
able to read again.

darling, this is a poem
about our undoing;
it's about us
giving up on us.

this is about the last time
we made love,
when it wasn't even one.

this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.

a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.
fray narte
Written by
fray narte  20/F/Philippines
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