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you wear the truth

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You wear the truth
as flesh-colored stockings,
avoiding to acknowledge your bare skin.
the nylon abrades
your tawny kneecaps, itching
to be released, to feel the wind
gently whip your calves, the sun
stinging your knees.

foolish boy.
leave the niche that you mistaken as
comforting.
slip out of your camouflage
and grasp onto my hand, dear,
as we lie among the sunflowers, the tulips
in the meadow
smiling as you feel the wind's gentle breeze
kissing your knees and neck,
the sun deepening your calves' rich tone.




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