the poetry's missing
and i can't find the spaces
in my brain.
i can't feel the pauses
in between breaths.
we're plotting our moves
the next one
-and the one that follows.
days tripping, stumbling,
melting into each other.
i meant to write a letter,
but whispered it to myself instead.
there was no time
for verses,
for fits of passion,
so the earth went unstained.
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