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15.06.19


When the nights get longer
And the moon is too weary to
Smile, I learn that what we nurse
Under these pillows as we whisper
Our vigil away
Is a malady : perhaps what
You thought was burning desire was
Just the affable stupor of
Being understood.
My sweet boy, the most
Laughable of loves are the ones
Stuffed into cracked hearts
In hopes of mending them whole.