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Deimos

April 26, 2013

fiftyone

The smell of the air before the rain breaks.
The smell of your heat.
That was your perfume.
Wasn’t it?
Don’t tell me, don’t tell me.
Don’t think I don’t recall the taste.
My skinny arm around your skinny waist.
Consuming an orchid with a running commentary.
Appalled by my own charm.
And the bored look on your face.

Seven mornings, seven nights.
Red dawn and red light.
Riven by needle, bound by thread.
Heaven is wasted on the dead.

Time lost in a reverie.
Shell shocked and blood simple.
I remember your eyes shutting.
And now all I can do is lament.
Every.
Single.
Fucking.
Moment.

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From → Poetry

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