IV.

(something in the breath
of you next to me
so soft will hurt
come august morning;

when you again say
politics of your inner
never will change;
yet remain my heart

which bone beneath
your skin (that i loved
to kiss) knows truly
‘tis not the separation
between me & you but
the separation of
above and below

(and missing you
behind a cratered wall
i dream not but
confess am hoping
someday
we will
be one




from Five Short Pieces for a Talking City
(c) idyll wilde 2009

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