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The Drunk Poet Writes Postcards to a Lover in an Empty Hotel Room

writingsforwinter:

In the grey light of morning everything is constant.

Every city in the early fog clustered together like stars, already beginning to clear,

and I remember your mouth on my neck, pulling me home,

anchor to sea floor, not love making per se, but rather making love

out of a recipe combined from years of sleeping together

on any surface we could find, our bodies only limbs once more.

Spilled coffee and stains in the sheets.

Someone left their name and number here, on napkins

as anyone who wants to find love eventually does.

You left your name in my heart.

When I tried to call, the aorta told me to leave a voicemail.

Or perhaps it was the left ventricle.

Either way, every coast here is so large a tsunami could never swallow it whole.

They say the person who can swallow their own fist is rare.

I would do the same with you if I could.

Carry you warm inside me like a planet; they say

there are bigger stars than us, different wars, that love

never looks the same between two people.

How could it?

We were never people.

We were love.

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