Condensation
So fragile
are conterfeit scrolls
coiled
upon libertine tongues
and yet
I've entertained
so many ardent phantoms
my lips
have become a pretty chandelier
on which love-lovers
hang the condensation
breathed in the heat
of ankle-deep desire
to own a piece of my naivety.
If I breathed away
these frozen beads of horny promises
would I find the strength to endure
the empty ache
of having longed for the warmth
of new springs
that never blossomed?
Would you kiss away the stagnant melt
or freeze my heart
behind my lips once more?
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