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I see through
blue moon crescent eyes;
a state of being
when I am you,

damaged by the black hole
of absent love.

I tell no one
the story of my face
made of snow and tears–
Petrushka banging on the door,

in the cold.

I am buried beneath minutes.
Silence kills
while I mourn the loss of thoughts
before they’re born into words.

I beg to be let in.
I remain a sad puppet.
Secrets melt;
I can no longer tell time.

Purple flowers bloom
upon your veins.
You go seafaring.


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