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When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.

April 2, 2014

I imagine he’s like a bulldog I would sic on my enemies, trained to kill and willing. “Please, my love, please”

Ten years you’ll spend avoiding each other. Saying too much, then nothing at all. But he’s always there in the background, ready to tear you down, ready to try to get at your soft spots and take as many swipes as possible with his claws. You tell him he’s mean and he ignores you.

This is his function in your life. He comes and he goes, but he’s loyal in a way that none of your actual lovers have been. If you needed him, he’d be there. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. He has a knack for being unreachable.




I love him unequivocally
his sad, slurring voice
all these years later
and every time
turn that song on
I hear him



I imagine my poetry in his pocket, folded, covered in dust and sand. I imagine his eyes on my words, even now. I like to think he carries them with him still, they’re better company than I am, me as person, versus my words as object. I do not know how to look into his eyes and see anything but the wall he’s erected between us.


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