On this side of the blue,
eaten by light,
lost as we are under
the blooming stars,
the sun’s white beat,
I should pretend we see each other.
It’s a lie.
In the perpetual noon of summer,
I begin to dream of cecity.
That at the touch of a fingertip,
we would lose sight
of our selves.
All colors rising up new,
the calvary of otherness
turning from crimson
to azure,
and the warm secret
of hurt and desire
altered, switched.
It’s so dark, so silent
on the other side of the blue,
I don’t want my wish
to fall into my mind,
only to find myself caught
in you as in a fishnet,
my vision forever
adjusted to your
sincerity.

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