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The Gift

In those days when we were in the process
of breaking everything that we had built together:
of deconstructing each line we had carefully woven
into poems, of whitewashing the walls
where pictures of roads had been painted, you had given
me a diary, along with your whims.

What made you choose that diary I wonder.
Was it that I wrote profusely and I could write anything that I wanted?
Or Was it that you knew that the end was near
And you wanted me to drain myself of you into those pages?

I never would know what could have been,
Had I held on to you as you did...
Maybe our tortured souls wouldn't have made
into these pages...maybe the blood of our souls
that stains our hands, would have throbbed
our hearts, as we grasped each other tight.




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