I Could DIE
and no one would notice,
too much bitter cold, congestion, too much white noise.
Including you
another brute
filled with care.
The seasons pass.
I season. Nicely
contained by your hollow thirst, a water jasmine appears,
to fill your infinite need, for now.
Till the luster fades,
and her sanguine support, curls, falls away.
And another season passes
as the cold hard lines, are drawn, again.
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