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he called it a kiss.

i called it a misrepresentation of a moment
held lip to lip. hardly mentionable. if anything, exceedingly
questionable of the stillness that holds silence in the dark.
it lays thick.
the silence.
a hung canopy weighted in the air of deadly gasses to the masses
particulate clouded in smokey haze and devilish grins of sarcasm
and uncompensated limbs.
how dare he even
speak that word? he calls it a kiss.
I take a drag of a menthol cigarette
and exhale bullshit.
we were once so beautiful then. no wrinkly lines to expose
wasted years and wasted tears held with grains of sand
and unspoken arguments that became our religion.
the passion, an unrequited love
marked by inked x's and o's reserved for secret lines and tell tale
signs of what was passion of a honeymoon phase
now the spark sprinkled from the star gazing eye dreaming of a
hundred ways
to become that reverie again. that mystical way in
a graze of the skin became an ignition in the warmth of untold regions
the nape of the neck gave premonition to electricity in cohesion
the small of the back curved a path to the squeeze of affirmation
the lick on my clitoris became your cue to end starvation-
and we sit here untangled in the shadow of the dark
back to back held onto what was once a spark
a misrepresentation, a fallacious causation of what I deem a lie

he called it a kiss

i call it an alibi.


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