la lumière.
the glare of the sun
leaves me broken in photosynthesis.
a morning so full of sicknesses
it sees me scratching at my face
with my fingertips-
-as twisted as
the knife in your chest.
i sing a rhapsody
for
the wind on a branch of the cherry tree;
it will blow and soon on the count of three-
-deliberately
scatter the wor d s t h a t y o u w h i s p e r
quietly to yourself when you kiss her.
l'obscurité.
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