Close your eyes, it is finished
we have died, you and I.
Your name, April, is gone
and October broke open,
unopposed.
We have no mouths, no cries,
the venom lost its course.
The abyss says nothing, just blinks,
curved and warm like a shawl of ink.
In pure darkness,
it is your voice I remember most,
devouring the sheets,
where the pain now lies,
impotent.
Memory downstairs is calling,
keys shine in every lock,
like knives.
There’s not one sin missing.
Nothing abstract nor pale,
nothing we wouldn’t recognize.
Except, your fist is empty of fury,
and my kiss on your solid neck
persits.
You are not another,
only the man I always loved.
I am the same naked fool
left with a crimson seed.
And there’s no more clinics
for blossoms,
no more pills for absence,
only the sound of us dancing
into a razed distance.
Each note is new yet familiar,
each wave a violent cause of joy,
and even if all seasons are gone,
we know,
as we knew thirst,
I won’t cure myself of April,
and you’ll keep craving for October
– One entirely made of flesh,
the other invisible like music.

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