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semi on hiatus because i have decided i am no writer

the pull 21/03

March 21, 2018


it's nighttime, and the air is aching:
​its breeze, its swelling, rippling fullness
​a summer evening, filled with the rich
​plump juice of forgotten morning,
​like every moment has been feeding
​on the last. 

​I know where i'm going; my feet are tracing
​this soil like lovers' hands, with that
​trickling warmth of familiarity,
​the sensation that memories could come
​surging back with any step:
​to be pitifully subject to the waves. 

​don't take me here again.
​i can hear the water against the rocks, then
​feel its pressure against my skin:
pleasure and pain and gross, consuming feeling,
​and then the slate edge,
​the pupil of a monstrous eye.

​my feet are not my own.
​before long i feel the sea's breath against me, and
​white foam limbs form in strange contortions at my feet.

​morning will come, and
​i'll wake up in cold sweat 
​as true as water.


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