I've considered your point. Your dark
synagogue, I've studied its corners,
how beautifully the shadows crawl
into metaphor; a sorrowful man
is a good man, a window covered.
You used to be of light, your absence
touched me, carried me to sleep's large bed
where fires shrink, burn out, freeze
the image of your body on my heart.
My eyes were made for darkness, how
they pull you towards me.
In this graveyard we call night, your secrets
are the midnight flower whose purpled
petaled faces consummate our final hours
in lightless-ness.
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