A Crescent Moon made of Silk

By , Savage, MN

I,
I am from the lithe movement of the 7th month.
And,
I know that you are not from here. 
I wish you weren’t.

You still continue to speak even after the blinds pleadingly collapse.
You change light bulbs from every bathroom
when the children of the world do not reflect.
Holding it up to their faces is quite brazen.
Yet,
who says you can’t?

Your open window and my locked door, you name them Forebode and Hesitation.
You stain every house, memories that are too precious to collide with your presence.

Between the whispers of  Forebode and Hesitation,
Faint images become repulsive thoughts.
Senses rich in love become loose change.
Amusing secrets become daunting alterations.
Trivial issues become a stab in the back.
I can prove otherwise, but you call it palimpsest.

With fear as an unneeded accompaniment,
this composition always end up leading to you.
To not mark it with your touch, but to claim it as yours all the same.
How revolting.


You must love drinking spilt milk.






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