in the jaws of late night conversation, the steam of our sweat puddles in my hands and I lay it on your chest clenching my fingers along-side your humble, breaking breast. the secrets of the night creep like strangers along the lines of your face. you store them under your tongue, saving them for battle when the west moon glow has all but won. my love is still an infant, still birthing its new pains; yours is swollen from a heartache; yet still similar of the same. with lead walls surrounding you on every other side, it’s hard to hear you thinking, it’s impossible to help you fly. it is a complicated matter, a noose whose hands deliberately choke my neck; preventing me from speaking, taking all my breath. I enable your behavior because I know that you need time, to understand this voyage and to reinvent your shine. but exhaustion feeds on wisdom, as it comes to me on waves, declaring the apparent, whispering my dismay.
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