you, my lover who is just my lover
in a land where the leaves don't turn
where a minute is seven years long
and then over, done;
do you remember when words flowed
like wine, and wine flowed
like water, in a land with no droughts?
how easy things were
with our ropes so tangled
escaping into each other, licking
our wounds
deciding that strong hands
and fragile necks, and firewood
could pull us through, do you remember--
us, lovers
in a land where point of everything
was to end?
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