Writ Large with Fingers on Hearts—A Villanelle

Foggy the mirrors, swiped—away with our messages

Woke up too late for coffee, motley, the way we like it

Too much love to be any good for either one of us

 

She’s running bare down long hallways, chasing vestiges

Fallen stars spiking out of the sand, shredding heels to shit

Dangling, ignorant ends over balconies, red—away with our messages

 

Pushing clouds aside to better see the galaxies,

beside a full moon, to take fleeting moments, like paper, and rip—

Cause it was too much love to be any good for either one of us

 

In jars, like fireflies, with radiant cinders and charades,

on tap, hot tongues on skin, cooler when blown: the inside largely writ

Now is swallowed quickly, upsetting stomach—away with our messages

 

Hotel beds lathered in sheets; damp, cloying attitudes

Locked elbows, shaking knees; fallow corners we can now sit,

With too much love to be any good for either one of us

 

In exile now, drinking coffee, black—with some (extra) additives;

A small series of red footprints, feminine; they exit with little bits

of aspect, gradually withdrawing—away with our precious messages;

They brought too much love—to be any good—for either one of us.

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