Like an open book

image

I write words and I look at them,
These spaces between the letters
Where I divide myself and put me in it
For you to read
For you to breathe
The love I have felt
underneath the chapsticks of language,
I corrode in its cacophonous transactions,
What pitiful it gives
For the tinge of a blood-coated lip
Or the nestling smog on my coat,
I haply kneel… I bang at its chest
Language, you have betrayed me.

In circular motions at my throat,
The glitch that I feel
Of my tongue that has sailed to Elysium,
I cannot explain
The love I feel.
Do you then, dear reader
Dare offer a rose
At my grave
of a crude chin?

If you can not drink from my cup,
Let me still believe
You have tupped me empty
From my full.

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