’16

Sunday was a bright yellow thread weaved between two papaya trees

Their trunks are young

Your lips are mine

The sickening taste of last night’s argument distilled with 7am headache-

 

You say ‘I love you,’

I say ‘I know.’

 

How long should we lie?

 

Sunday was a bright yellow thread weaved by your cautious fingers

My spine has been arched

Toward your stomach

The cockroaches in the kitchen will stop feasting on Thursday’s mango-

 

Instead they will flock

To our rotting bodies.

 

How long will we lie?

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’16

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