How many suns 
would I have to travel 
to reach you?
We, 
two polka dot winged butterflies 
longing to touch 
heaven's volcanic ember.
You, Monet's violet.
Me, Picasso's blue.
Your fingers, 
a wrong god
I worshipped .
Your name, 
a wrong prayer  
I whispered.
I told you stories of 
a pale courtesan 
who fell in love with the queen, 
only to be killed 
and buried inside a stone temple.
And this became a prophesy 
from the chopped tongue 
of a story teller.
Because,
I slaughtered myself,
alone,
to keep you from leaving.
I pasted your name 
in my tongue ,
a spell so enchanting,
the eight deadly sin.
I  offered you my heart, 
like the silence of 
a mother soon to be martyred-
adamptant and foolish.
I made an orphaned bird 
distribute constellations 
on your birthdays, 
and called the grapes 
I ate on new years eve 
by your title.
I tied your cap on my waist, 
not trying to stay 
afloat in the sea, because 
you made dying 
a little more beautiful. 
And you became 
a photograph t
hat made a wall visibly bare 
with its absence.
I became the shattered glass 
that once bounded it.
Forgetting you is a violence
I inflict upon myself
a severing of the tendons
that bound us,
a slow amputation of  memories.
What is left is 
a phantom limb
aching with each touch.
I assure you that am fine.
But the truth 
is a stubborn thing
It grows in the dark,
it feeds
on the lies we tell.
Every lie is a tragedy.
Every tragedy is a poem.
My poem is dead.

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