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August 18, 2011

Kiss (272)

Your fossilized kiss
still sits in the
compost of my
mind.

Leaning like the
Eiffel over me,
gathered at the
top, your legs spread,
your head held up
high, looking down
at me, warning me:
I’m not responsible
for the ache after this.

Tell me now,
what did you truly
expect from me then?
Did you expect me to
divert my gaze,
let you go, the gold
among the brittle salt
scattered and lost?

The earth moved
when you moved, and
each time, the soil shifted
and was born anew –
that is how I knew
I then fell in love with you.

Then, arching
forward, craning
your head down
to the base of my
throat, you decided
to devour me,
my existence that
sought a cave to
survive – you gave
me the sea.

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