heart a grate
full with ash
carried out
to the garden
on a warm
windy night

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my favourite bit
when you appeared
around the bend
at the end of my street
come to meet me
the ghost of gold
on an autumn night
stitched together
with neon thread
your black dress
splashed by the sirens
from the cries of the city
your red heels
sparked the sealskin
of the pavement
drains choked with fire

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your heart
more scar than tissue now
you’re scarring the scars

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lamps wore away
at the dark

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you’re the last light of the year
the late light of the day
that touches the old fire
that still clings to the tips of the trees
in my haunted park

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worn away with waking

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scarred skin
doesn’t collapse
when carved

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I write to you
to keep you near me

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stories to temper steel to
when the story falls silent
the folds folded
asleep inside the blade

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the hinges of your heart
sprinkles rust like pollen
as the dark wind of your blood
squeezes through its doors
left ajar

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a blizzard of butterflies

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rooms lit by storms
and midnight snow

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a candle burned
flame sunk
into the column
of its body
tears viscous
with lives lost
cum cloudy
with ghosts
of lives
never lived

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miss the sea glass
crumbling sunlight
in your eyes
knowing fire
through the smoke
of your songs
the tantrums
of your tenderness
how your steps
slowed
to match mine

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