this morrow

I know that this morrow is as I thought it would be when I thought of it yesterday

thou art here

I can place a face and a name

Remains of a residue which stains the very fabric of the morning which is to be

don’t get me wrong: I want you for me

but …

’tis impossible. Though my belly hurts I see thou as an impossibility within reach.


every break of dawn


I forget thee on purpose since you remain an illusion

a fragment

a figment

una conjetura

Do I want you or do I want the elusive illusion of thee?

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