To the girl with whom I might have shared a man
I bumped on this while scavenging the internet. This is rawness, poetry and depth, coalescing to create a piece of art that knows no boundaries. Kudos ink drops.
Resting on my bed, in the insomniac midnight air of the second day of September, I come to you blemished. Bearing sins of six generations of an oblivious Sodom. To sit down with you and disentangle the mystery of a man that holds both our hearts in his arms.
I have thought about you, about the possibility of you being there. And the possibility that the mumble he swallows in the jangle of our lovemaking is an attempt to warn me that there is another like me. Or the stains on his shirt are maps I can trace with my fingers to get to you. Or the keylock on the phone is the wall I need to jump over and find you, squatting, waiting for him. Or the fast pounding of his heart when he is kissing me insanely is a silent sentence that speaks of you.
No, do not…
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