the messenger

Hyacinth garden

love likes to preserve its fantasy

with a language that nibbles at anguish.

it is not a coincidence

whispers prowl and become imaginary.

  every word on tip of the tongue syllables from a messenger.    

there was a translation I could not hear it was more like an abbreviation.                                                                  

all was gray through her eyes as          

                                             smoke signaled from her lips.

I tasted her mouth                                                                                

smooth flicker lick the    


while the singe of memory bows.

the message didn't kill the messenger,

but it slaughtered me.

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