visible only to those who know where to look
the visible scarification of the words in your letters
a conversation of pain as we tried to breathe
life into moments as delicate as fronds
inscribed with a language known only to saints
we knew what it was to sin
not pride or lust but idolatry
the placing of certain glances precise embraces
above the gods
we believed only in each other and shadows
lengthening in the cold October
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