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“Tell me,
what are your intentions?”
the flesh asked solitude,
who was shaped like a friend
but was hollow like a lie,
whose constancy rivals
that of love, and whose
movement is the anthem of
how faith can have exceptions.
It wore the question like
a wavering breath, and took
its time until the act of waiting
for an answer became two
imperfect metaphors for night.
So the flesh pierced
her earlobes, reveling in
the pain, and put them on,
loops of moments that
bend like metal and
bear reminders like stone,
not knowing if she is satisfied.

“Do you think all this
is temporary?”
solitude wrote on her skin,
deep brown like the truth
so powerful it evades foretelling.
The flesh received only
the symbols and not the words,
like prompts of pleasure in
a maze of dream sequences,
not bothering to respond.
It is one thing to acknowledge
loneliness, another thing
to engage it.

They honor each other
best like this, in halves.
Like confessionals, flung
to the wind. It’s the language
of transgressing the cliché
of hunger, that view of sea
from the edge of the pier,
where flesh spreads her desires
like vendettas across
the weathered planks
and solitude leans softly
against the railing,
aligning all things with
their respective shadows.
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Untitled image by photographer Natasha Smirnova

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