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Let me dissect your thoughts and analyze the emptiness ensconced between your spine,
let me break it apart like the spine of a brand new dictionary
let me swallow your sorrow.

I will stretch out my arms and my embrace will be wider than the Nile river,
burning more ardently than the Gobi desert.
let it spread, let the sandstorms in your veins spread, I want to taste your sorrow melting on my lips.
I want to hold your sorrow with both hands and reduce them ash, I want to take hold of your loneliness and fold them into paper cranes to send away into the whirlwind.
Let me be your protection, the ravaging thought breaking like a fever in your mind,
let my existence be your late night shelter, let it thrive and grow like a robust field of flowers, let your impending darkness break into a rain,
a cathartic rain that will bring you to my doorsteps and make you knock with an intensity that will shatter our invisible walls,
drenched in words.

Let the dark enigma dissolve into stars,
let it fuel the stars so they will burn longer into the night, until it fuels our own unspoken contemplations to “everlasting”.

My warped cognition starves beneath the century old trees, which have seen death buried uselessly
and seen, people who bury blossoms with their branches to forget sorrow, but never seem to forget at all.
Trees that have seen blurs of people that will never wake from their instinctive dreams, protected from the ignorant bliss of the universe, blind…
Blind and esoteric the walking plastic, stretch it over the shivering mountains and hold my trembling hand. My fingers are aligned with tattoos and bruised wedding marks detracted by the old lovers, but you will adore me for my obsession with pain, with artificiality (no man loves authentic transparency_

Enigmatic is our distorted imaginations feeding on wild distractions, you would rather surmise on my artificial appearance than host mundane transgression ( no one loves women of clarity)
We are too warped, distortion led to obsession
Obsession with the demented,
The true space of our world lies within the space of nothing, our worlds twisted into quixotic dimensions resting between the vacant exhalations of your unpublished spine. I will listen for the irregularity of your heartbeat and turn it into poetry which will be the color of your morning skies and let it melt in the humid heat and drench us, without a word, always, without a sigh.



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