.

What a fragile taste there is
to your skin. Delicate like chamomile
or bruises. Violent purples swirling
dappled across you, maybe two
or three or four or more.

Never before.

Never again
rallying cries and
crimson thighs, tides turned
indigo under the moon
and i know you need to leave
but my god, isn’t it soon.
Give me room.

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