Burning Love

April 11, 2010
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It is like he throwing cyclamens
at my face, staining its pink juice
on my sensitive heart.
And the Maidenhair that once
pulled us together succeeds in
drawing us apart.

You, dark sun, iron in your haze,
don’t you pity me? Have you
not felt the heat of my heart
strike you a million times over?
Grow me roses, please, grow them,
let your sweat from my heat grow,
grow what I need to live.
Or at least grow forget-me-nots—
And give them to him.

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