June 8, 2010
the silence is eating at
war-torn wings of the charred recollections.
drape the remains around me
and breathe in deep the dust of memories left unstirred,
the scent of childrens' concussions.

we are the leftovers,
what should be burnt, powdered,
we are the Wrong.

the pounding of my own heartbeat is
the scuttling crabs that hold your tongue.
i didn't say you could speak.
<i>i didn't say we could be</i>

yesterday was the only glimpse i got
of your face mirrored in my dilated pupils.

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