Friday, March 12, 2010

St. Symeon

think of me through god-

logic. my love crumbles

like the low stones of

our stairs. I am drunk

on your light, tipsy

with the promise of

remembering my dreams.

there is an ache that never

ceases. to wrap my body

around a breath, a beating

heart within a tight cage

of ribs, lips that do more

than just turn away.

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