I hungered for your tongue,
for the hot harvests in your hands,
for the light flaring in your chest,
so I planted the night we met
in the glass gardens of my windowsill.
I watered the seeds
with eyelashes and secrets
and waited for fruit to grow in your mouth,
as the winter wore war,
vines formed on words and withered walls,
and I, starving like a dark street,
couldn’t consume you anymore.
all the forests opened at once,
and spilled their colours on my eyes,
And I realised,
if I were to never eat from you again,
I’ll drink dusk’s ether,
and kiss farewell
the shadows in your stride,
because, you see,
I would rather be etherized
than to feel this famine
in every cruel corner
of my body.
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