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Your fingers are intertwined through mine, like vines
crawling through the broken boards of a ruined palace, making me beautiful in death.
My tongue nearly betrays me as I gaze at you, protesting within me,
juggling words I desperately refuse to speak.
And thus I decided to try writing you letters
broken metaphors sealed in envelopes destined for my trash can
dictating how you stripped me down to nothing but soul and bones,
welded together beneath pale and fragile skin.
I could never be close enough to you.

But there are times when words do no justice
like the smell of your soft breath on my cheek that feels like home;
the squint of your brown eyes boring holes in my heart;
and waking up enveloped in the warm skin of your arms
knowing that you held me until the pastel sunrise.

I imagine tear-stained postage stamps and phone calls
filled with frantic I-miss-yous and come-back-to-mes.
Reminiscing of bodies, coalescing, harmonizing –
two fluid instruments, at last tuned to each other,
lamenting in ghostly interludes, and waiting for sweet reunion.

But I cannot wait forever – neither can you –
and reality is that we are irresponsible and careless
because you’ll pack your suitcase with my hopeless heart inside.
I dread the day when our bones begin collecting dust
and the words on my tongue dry up in unbearable loneliness
until I can only speak in salty tears.

Still I am pitifully hollow without you. In my impassioned dissent
I spend hours gnawing on pen caps, and on words that don’t exist,
struggling to find some way to say “I love you,” although I know it’s dangerous.
Because darling, you’ll be only a ghost someday
haunting me with nearly tangible memories. I cannot imagine how it will feel, knowing
I will never be able to touch you again.





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