XIII.

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Dedicated to P.


Trees caress the ends of my mouth,
tuck a whisper redolent of September
along with my tresses behind my ear,
which carries across an unquiet meadow.


Amid the rattle of cicadas, I see her
lying, reminiscing in a windswept grass
about sunlight long agone, as if its beams
springing from her heart does not illuminate
the meadow, our very home.


She sees not her light;
she writhes in silent agony.
Plums rot divinely by her side,
and the pulse of the sun within her heart
smothers her agony until it softens into the sunset.


I lie beside her like the plum;
she brings death to my winter
and death becomes all of which I write,
for she sees my pain—
sempre.


Her tears are mere watercolors,
eternally unseen by stars like us,
who can never perceive her art, her sunset
or the fact her agony is never her own.


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