Wednesday, January 22, 2014

She will tear the skin of your back into pieces when she loves you again.
Gaping wounds where she has punched in her affections.
When she insists on writing poetry about you, you do not complain.
You make love to her even when you are tired.
When you have touched her last, you do not wash your hands.
"I'm in love," she says at the base of your throat.
"Again?"
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