The last wisp of smoke
curls into the air
like the cruel hunger pains
that drill into my bones.
Silver, in the exotic moonlight,
I bathe in the crystalized water.
The masquerade of my lies
retreats to reveal blackened skin.
I close my eyes into the past:
a lone hair brushing against my forehead,
his fingertips against my cheek,
a tiny bead of sweat r o l l i n g off of my shoulder,
and a thin curl of poison
as he draws.
I press my back against the chill,
a polished river stone.
Goosebumps born upon my fading facade
the blinding light of mourning.
The silk of a bloodied dove
carries me into the next.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”
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