Wednesday, March 28, 2012

We are perfect in the night.

I am silent like my ancestors.
You are crashing into everything
like an avalanche originating
from under my covers and
gaining potential
momentum
and speed
the farther you roll.

I am haunted by the shape of your waist,
the curves imprinted
in the crooks of my elbows,
molded there by your once neglected body,
just enough to let me close my eyes now
and pretend that I can feel you there
as though you never fell,
never tumbled like the snow
down that fucking black hole mountain.

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