blow your black
values stretched to
the limits of
their strength, seasoned in the energy
it takes
to strike poise and starve,
pout right and perfect the gentle
whine, and to embrace the iconography
of an infinite return.
what little age can weave its roots across our
dewy folds, braiding
with my hair,
betrays my eyes from
the herald of your time, the aweful terror of your presence.
i now feel how it feels to feel familiar
with every detail newly known,
still requiring
the suggestion of my memories
of lovers gone and old.
i tire when i see your smile.
rows of molars lined like calendar pages hanging
on the walls of where i don't belong.
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