Sunday, April 29, 2012

sonnet one hundred three

my skin taunted by its
inexplicable hunger for
you, like the haywire
inside my head, stretched

from one end to another,
waiting for you to walk
and crash and gather
your steps again so you

may see the tangled
web of landscapes
that hold repetitive,

redundant images of
you, my hands burn
under the rivet of loneliness.

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