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Monday, September 10, 2007

Living the Last

I walk past the last place we made love,
where we spoke of our future after blending
sweat and tears, we had tuned the world out
as we sang the body gospel, hypnotised,
all else outside of us was chronic noise:

we listened intently to the sermon of our skin,
love-shaped words blindly promising us the decades;
we would have our son and call him sobriety,
we would make love with passion even at ninety,

all our nightly memories would be a dawn, faithfully
rising in each other's eyes, we'd always be free
to tie our desires to each other's honesty,
time we believed could not intrude to how we'd always be,

but who knew that love was just a temporary conversion,
its memory used as a weapon on excommunicated hearts,
not knowing the right of whether to still believe
in those truths gone, while searching for the new to come:

or that love was just a series of false visitations,
wherein we convert all our firsts, and out of love
we rebel with the lasts, trying to avoid the vacuums
we made that suck the oxygen from the judas in us,
as we walk past the places love prayed last.

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