Ghost of Earth ©

Intruder

July 8, 2016 Poems, Word, Writing

We shared that
beige
apartment
before we
started
trying each other
as witches.

That queen
bed;
your bi-silence
against
my back;
whichever
way you flutter
is no matter
and no business
of mine
and you would
never
make it.

We made
many
maddened
nights of whiskey
wet lips
and Peter Gabriel
on the stereo.

I will never
think of anyone
else
when I think of biko,
or magic arrow,
and your eyes closed
and my eyes closed
seeing each other
clearer
than
the gold letters
on Melt,
or the marker
white caps
at every horizon.

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