2:12 a.m.
I made love to you in metaphors: your skin, an unprimed canvas I drizzled with chocolate and concrete. I was raw then, too. My life was balanced by a handful of impressions, an instrument constrained by too few notes. Our sex is now dead sculpture -- even in silhouette, we lack interest (both to ourselves and passers-by). In your absence, I'm learning to compose time by myself -- my homage to you, a monument to solitude in minor keys.
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