No its love,
like a curl of smoke
that fades
no smiles
or passion
in the remains
You drag your hands
through the ash and
with two fingers,
indicate the war paint
on your cold and
sullen face.
No, its love.
like a blast of steam,
the build of pressure
and the initial scream.
hot dares, no cares,
dissolved in air.
It can move mountains
be pushed aside
by the wave of
a careless hand
and yet beside
the silence
at the end of the
phone that buzzes
when you hang up first
its love
and can we take anymore?
I try to work it out
to work it out...
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