That I am afraid of the sunshine that sticks to my forehead often
ringing darkness as its ghost, or the beam of the heavy eyelid
The mannequins of transparent aches I have
Throttle the rim of my soft neck, and my skin sinks
in the reds and blues of waterfall reverse.
My fingers might chip and my dress might slip
Vertically in the horizons of your wide eye
The spots under the cleft of my chin are misty scars if you see
Defeated. Mended. Hands of the clock.
Times of quietness sticks to my mouth always, seeking a surreal cryptic language
I eat this paw of time, drinking the remains of memories
and then spawl, scorch, make a night- shift.
I conjure your breaths like papers of old Poetry onto the
cracks of my lips, my jawline to seize you in this verse
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