Unoriginal Sin
Tracing paper against living skin
making outlines to try to fit inbetween
The spaces in my soul
Big enough to loose myself in.
We searched for this concept of sense
looking beyond answers
into poetry and under the bed
crawling into the square box on wheels
my father built.
Edges can be useful things
I watch them teeter
over the tip of my tounge
tripping these animal feelings
I used to try and draw you out with
My thoughts are wooden, your hands my flame
all you did was touch my shoulder
and I fell in Love
so hungry I might eat you,
af if it honestly were the most natural thing.
In your words I find hope again
a small feathered stone nestled warm in my mouth
a need to speak, or softly sing
the smoke signals sinking
beneath the surface of reality.

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