the moon explodes into vinegar behind the curve of your half-open mouth.
every month it is this flower that appalls me -
the bloom of your empty eyes that beg not for forgiveness.
the burst of darkness beyond the window, that was the moon.
your fingers hang; your nails are cracked and painted yellow.
i wish to record your name upon my skin.
we stand like clocks. we know to tick, we do not talk.
and always... it's the dawn that seems to win.
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