poem: last November was seeped through with color

sitting, now, on the other side

and looking back

through the blue-green sheen

of November in Love, I am

unhinged and wet, the wine running

deep rosé over my virgin

hands, my soiled head.

 

he would come to me

out of the rain, out of the dark,

shaking mythos from the curling damp

parts, smiling like fiction,

talking to me (in my head), asking: how

are you? how does it feel

to be seen?

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