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banging on the window
the shutters are closed now and the dust of a former self is emptying the space you do not fill
semolina smiles rigid with ancient honey drift by like floe as you crawl from the skin of your clouded lover with a glance heavier than stone hurled down to his invisible unspoken
and barred from speech, you, made from time's havoc, sprawl over the tactile dawn that emerges from your clenched hand
your fists that bang on the window only hitting the flux of air as you yell yourself out of the deeper void and the wall that grows before you:
your hot pain forcing its way
open
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