Tell me how you are a stranger, that your lips do

not move when you read a letter found with
someone else’s name. That the distance
between dearest and always is a delectable.
Tell me you do not glance at the trajectories.
How the words held in your hands taste better than
those that fall from your mouth. And I will not tell
you that I only have words to imagine touching
you, syllables as fingers to run along your spine.
That a line break is the inspiration of your skin.
I am only a craftsman binding these words to desire.




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