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The tender dampness
Of the aging bougainvillea,
My tireless hands,
Lightly tread,
Along your surrendering body.
My lips have already unraveled
The secrets
Of your cracked lips.
And we begin
To regain time.


Your body has been the world
In the palms of other men.
They have ingrained themselves
Deep into your hallowed earth.
They have worshipped
Between your tiny pale breasts,
And tangled syllables
Within your cascading hair.
I too am apart of these men.


Ask the bare trees,
Ask the meadow dust,
Ask the crumbling chrysanthemums,
Or the walls of this shattered room,
For they shall tell you,
I have loved her.


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