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Where Shadows Breed

Your hands curved away from the heat,
Letting it wash me instead.
I felt the half-formed thoughts in your head beat against my fingers.
The lightest tap, tap, tap, a promise that they’re there.
But they didn’t bloom against my fingertips,
They didn’t swallow my fingers whole.
They didn’t like the salty bitterness lining my palms,
Or trace the forgotten melodies writhing up my wrists.
Twisted and broken like so many bent desires, swaying restlessly in the still air.
A movement born of insecurity.
I laughed as your heartbeat crowned my head,
Insinuating your sincerity.
But you never made a promise.
The air would have tasted it and spit it back out.
Shattered it into fragments only nature could understand.
Only the heaving dirt beneath your wayward feet would have whispered of.
Only the darkness can feel you now.
Your short breaths in and out, fear finding your flesh, biting it.
Now you know what destruction feels like.
Now you’re bathed in the shadows.
I often wondered where those shadows bred, what they took nourishment from.

Published in Poetry


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