VII

Whispers have been told
To shout from the sibilance
Of their subtle stance;
The little more to say
But to “take care” of the soul
In ways that are
Washing over, destroying
One’s only attention.
They are the words
That know the entirety
Of what I have
To hide:
If I say “take me”,
Why is it not ‘misuse me’?
And if I say “spare me”,
Is not ‘abandon me’?
How different are the synonyms
When spoken through a different
Tongue, a warp of the wave,
Across the longitude
Of letters in a row:
Broken flavours of linguistics,
Here the refracted angle
In a crossed pattern
As if I see through
The curvature of a grace,
The smoothness of the flame
That has clung
Across my skin,
In mottled and ruined burns.

So then take me and leave
Nothing behind, except
My soul entwined
With yours.

The End

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