Monday, February 20, 2017

Torn





Torn


Late winter day,
your whining doesn’t sound
like you, sounds like a voice
living inside other voices.
I try to mold you, but you choose
your own dream
and shatter.

I am torn between your body
and your eyes. A monologue:
Does one divided
by nothing equal infinity?

Your young face
my point of departure,
the line I follow
to the point of regret.

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