i dream of you
in every knight that
the seeping red moon, cut
by its own sharpened crescent,
buckles to its needs
and yet it has not lost, but won
this bloody war
for it melts slowly, drowning in
its own wait of heaviness
remembering
us, the one we came to be
or did we lie our way
into this?
or does it even matter?
why or how or when, or Hoooom?
what, exactly, is this?
we are the joys,
we are the sorrows
i would not ever have known
how much i loved you
if you still loved me
because you left me,
not because you loved me;
i am untied. so i let you go.
a common thread which I must find
again, once the dawn wakes me
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