Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Robert Wilson
I still recall
every blemish
every perfect curve
of her body
because I hold
it tight
in an open grave
The moon
the lines
engraved on her throat
and wrist
I drink from them
as I used to
from her beauty
(permanent intoxication)
Do not worry
my lifeless queen
of every thought
The world will die
a thousand times
but I will never
let go
of your
It's gorgeous
to me
as the butterflies
that fly around us
before their wings rot off
under the ghost of the moon

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