we aid ourselves with formulas
and we make our own,
silence and depth makes up
for what we share in minutes
taken away by arguments,
like blades or scalpels used
to write across our skin,
drawing the red unforgiving
blood of things that once
held our desires and the rain
of fire that go with it,
now everything has been
washed down, soaked, submerged,
waiting for a little rescuing.
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