The sea has the same hue 
of your favorite shirt.
For me it is 
a fundamental malady 
threatening my sanity,
because I remember 
more than I forget.
This lustful calling is 
defined as memory, 
an arsonist swallowing 
innocent gazes.
So I press myself into me,
my bones brittle and shallow.
Am a skelton, who is calculating 
the price I had to pay
when I sold my homeland.
My tattered teeth is still 
enjoying your favorite dessert.
My eyeballs are holding stories
in the belly of a flower head.
I wish to talk to you
in a tongue not mine,
a final prayer.
I want to tell you that am 
not afraid of what comes after death,
That you are a god beyond saving,
That you are my metaphorical spine.
I want you to tell me not to slice wrists,
That life is not a futile race
That you still think of me.
But
Like you, sea suffers silently.
Like you sea is not meant to stay.
Like me, death keeps growing.
Like me, death is meant to stay

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