There, between us, your sinister gravity,
my immutable ritual of holding onto shiny
things even when they're useless and crude.
There is no confusion in our confusion.
A hundred times I have dismembered my love
for you. In four languages I write your name
in the shadows of sun, on the smooth black
river with its quiet, thoughtful stones.
What was once beautiful has been broken down
to pain, the anonymity of calling into darkness
and darkness explaining that you are not there-
my own body, a dying star, outlasting decay.
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