our ghosts pick up the
flesh we left on a sidewalk,
and call it its own sheathe,
its own armor, its own form,
then we escape into the night,
thoughtless and deep into
the dream of fiction and
caress, humbled by the
fumbling auroras created
by sunrises with you, dawns
that conjure the silence
of our own heartbeat,
the conundrum of our own
loud voices chained to a surrender.
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