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Sky Burial

February 21, 2015

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You’d sleep in my shirt.
You slept like the dead.
I’d creep from the bed.
And head up to the roof.
Smoke cigarettes.
Bare chested.
Under bruised-peach skies.
Whilst you slept.
With your legs.
Crossed at the ankle.
Inside.
All your clockwork.
Pulling me back.
From the girls in the street.
Like the tide.
Rats in a run.
Or legs on a flea.
I’d never felt so very alone.
On that roof.
Whilst you slept.
In my shirt.
On our bed.
I see.
In your eye.
The sun’s reflection.
It kills me.
It kills me dead.
Red.
I die.
Each dry evening.
In remembrance.
Of each damp morning.
So let us light.
To remnants.
Cigarettes on sills.
Over still London.
By providence.
I recall.
That sick moon.
Falling upon us.

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From → Poetry

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