SoulReserve

Soirée

I chisel
the song,
carved from stone,
cold like the moon;
Sung on trembling lips,
no bluer
than the wispy notes
of love;
Wrung
dry and broken;
No tearing up
of the eyes,
No bitter sighs
no commotion, no confusion;
Smooth
like the stirring
in the gut,
The void of the breath
leaving the lungs.

© SoulReserve 2016

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