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I could gift you broken dishes Stained in crimson and ecru

You Would hold them in your soft fingers Pliant / tenderly caressing the cracked edges Of old bowls and plates empty of Nourishment or reciprocity Pricking your hands, stealing Beads of your life Your voice, your calm Deep shades of ruby red Drizzling down your palms Into my mouth

Still, you stand With nothing but a soft smile for me And no more room left For you

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