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This is not poetry
We are not poetic

(I am frustrated and hopeful
You are my muse
Your absence governs me
I am defined by you

I am a Petrarchan sonnet)

Around us are languishing poets
Waiting to write our poem

But we only lie
on cold beds alone
wrapped in each other
trying to remember why
and why and when
can we open our eyes

We're too fucking afraid to be poetic
And this poem is not for you.