Blush petals shine at the edge of your lips,
And your marbled skin has turned cold as stone.
Your body all angles and twisted bone,
Jagged trees show out where the flesh has ripped.
You're fine, as am I. Thirty depressions,
Two breaths. They say you are cold, so I leave,
And fetch the blanket which I'm sure you need.
A shared look. I watch an act in session.
Late. I imagine being here sooner.
You sit upright. We go to hospital.
I bring flowers and a scarf made of wool.
It's red, and it is like some grand treasure,
Cascading round your slender, pulsing nape,
Alive and perfect in our drab dreamscape.
Read Denial Cycle #5
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