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You are beyond your haunting eyes.
Me, my words are my eyes.
The color of my “Come home”
A deep amber flecked with phosphorescence
The color of your “God, yes.”
Purple with streaks of green.
My eyes think of the taste of your name
Cayenne dusted mangoes surrounded by twilight at the edge of a cliff.
I think of Rilke describing beauty as the “beginning of terror” which “serenely disdains to destroy us. “Every angel is terrible,” he says
But I praise my destroyers
Tonight, your eyes feel like candlelight.
Your words taste of liquorice; an aftertaste of cilantro in your strong vulnerabilities.
Your vowels fragranced with violets; consonants scented with hunger.
Exclamation points, question marks, commas and periods, they all hide each other’s fears and longings.
Slip your hand into my pockets and hunt for the ellipses;
I will pretend I never knew where…
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