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Spaghetti knots

wasp

he was too long ago

he was has it really been that much time

he was ancient history

found in the faraway look of a stone statue

that would crack and leak loss on the world

after years

 

he was painting classes and hands held and

blooming kisses in all the lovely locations

that you would visit later

with a dry throat

 

he was a greenhouse with only red maples

the feeling of hunger when deep inside you

with the pulse of nothing

with the empty beginning

 

he was telling you that this would be his favourite moment

where you are in a warm shower with warmer water

handprints washing off against the rhythm of fall

and he places his head on your shoulder

like a familiar streetlight does to the nights of childhood

 

he was saying to not love him

for he will be him

for he is him

for he would be bad

ruin your apartment

tear up the wall paper

shatter a glass against the floor

slice your knees

 

he was a wasp

with the sting of a bee

and the cocoon of a butterfly

left moulting on your couch after a heavy lunch

of buttered croissants and salty meats

that expired yesterday

 

he was an old cell phone worn with philosophy

and a breezy belief that there was only

the felt and the feeling

the kissed and the kissing

the loved and the loving

 

he was summer in the pocket of your whitest shirt

the stain of blueberries on yellow pants

he was the rolling meadow that is formed by every

green blade dancing together

 

he was separation anxiety

he was a lazy death on a sunday

he was the promise of life after the living

 

he was what wasn’t

though he said he’d be

more than that too

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

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