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Untitled (A Sonnet)
You always hated it when I spoke French;
You, with brittle diction, put down in hand,
Smote my present tenses. Each absent clench
Of lips as transient as holding sand.
Even now your parting words trickle past,
Tidal in their echoes, abruptly rung
From saturated nights, and drying fast
From this desert distance. The softly swung
Trails of words lie dormant, iambs prowling
In counterpart to our sleeplessness shared.
Fathoms deeper into us, no howling
Intimacy surfaced – I never dared
To make this Untitled Us as opaque
As you deserved, and so, aching, we break.
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