In the intimacy of the
night in all the unvoiced
hours tightly bound to
a flame that cauterizes
every wound, I glance
at the wayward eyes
of stars that shed the
only light to parry
the blind silences inside
an empty room. Sympathy
for suicide blisters the bed
and the dark moon watches
the motion of my lips for
shapeless attention. Nothing
is insulated against gyre
memories; like red thread
for all its strength they fade
to an end. They are carved
in the wake of death buried
in stillness again.
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