I will leave you nameless in every poem 
I scribble on the soap bar while
moving through a florescent market.
I will write that you 
peeled oranges for me, 
while I believed that it meant 
glorious innocence.
The truth is it meant 
abandonment, or a bloodless revolution.
A gentle chalk portrait in a drain.
Nightgazing while sleep paralysed.
You chose to hide in darkness 
and left me with god.
You took  the form of a bird and 
left me in his doorstep.
And I sat there, motionless,  
like a summer rain in search of puddles.
Like the dirt on the toenails of a mother.
Like the hollowness of a pigeon's arms.
And I know if God opens the door,
he will call me grief, 
because I forgot my name, 
and so does he.

// You have turned into an oxymoron, metaphors are outdated//

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