my love away.
She moved,
from where I lay.
And her touch,
how it made me.
She carved
herself.
Into my bedspread.
And my back.
As she dug in,
less than love,
more than hatred.
So I tried,
to pick up.
All the paces,
and I faltered.
All the wine,
as if lilac.
Such necter,
such poison.
It's obscene,
when these daydreams,
become shelter.
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