Eden has nestled her head amongst the swelling egos;

who will wake such soft sibilance from her slumber

and fall amongst the settled sheets

(That is to say, can she love me much longer)?


this is not about love,

but to render ourselves become

and find in this darkness softening eyes

(That is to say, I have never found such softness before)


she will find me in the firewood

render me a city of ash

teach me to map these scars to tenderness

(That is to say, I know now that not all gods find their tongues in gunpowder and shotgun barrel)


just as time is fleeting,

even we will soon forget ourselves

to gasp for what little air is to be found at the surface

The poet will make a habit of pain until she learns the face of healing


search for my eyes in this dark

you will find them lost in yours

entranced by tightening skin

and sharpening breath and


the assonance I found in you alone


must I paint you a muse

but everything I sought in the forage


show me the fountain

from where I might drink the last of this sorry pain into nothing


What else might our survival resemble

but the reflection in which we have realised dysmorphia

but histories cannot be written out of love

anymore than this redemption


and so, who will write our (love)story but me

who had found in you the will to be

(That is to say, even keloid scars can fade into insignificance)


and so where might we start a tale

whose beginning is stuttering

her fear of the end

(That is to say, we read what lines these palms had written for us)


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