How this love is a gun
We jinxed ourselves to the marrow of the night,
never to catch a wink of sleep, I am no fisherman,
you whisper, pluck me some metaphors, eye-wide
and plump, their edges scratching my lips, spring
will sprout this year from every scab and wound,
if we open out the window on this warm April,
dark will tame the ruffles on our misbehaving skin,
the flashing lights of passing cars explode through
the curtains, spinning against the wall, your fat palm,
heavy as an unfinished dream, swells up all air cells.
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