Your absence 
puts its mouth on me, 
splits my skin with its 
metallic finger 
from my throat to belly, 
with precision of a doctor.
If cuts me open to
find the dried heart of a lover,
a petridish with 
scratch of your name, but
without warmth of a stale sun.
There is a heavy sky between us,
a void through which 
I will crawl to 
steal metaphors for you, 
like an angry pilgrim 
who was denied of hope.
My silence stitches 
cracks of thread thin words 
once you uttered, 
a season which no longer exists, 
tail of an extinct reptile.
You stick to me,
a god fearing parasite,
blinded by all the colours 
we saw in each other.
Am a body, 
revolving inside a sand coloured cuboid,
delusional of galaxies, 
embracing emptiness.
Your memory is a vulture, 
it's beak so soft 
and wings so fast, 
that it picks me clean.
My existence is an unlucky coin 
no fortune-teller will take, 
since it has complex lines 
punctured on it.
I can never prove my sanity,
for how desperately 
I want to give in to 
a heart that no longer beats.

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