Perhaps
Written: September 15, 2025, for a contest sponsored by John Lawless
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Perhaps it was never love—
just a fipple of breath in velvet dusk,
a suction of names unspoken,
burnished by the stygian hush
between your glance and mine.
Perhaps the ossuary sang first—
an aria of alabaster bones,
each note a necrotic lullaby.
We writhed in the molten ache,
palliating truth with ephemera,
inveigled by the aureate hush
of what we dared not name.
Perhaps this is the Desideratum—
a triptych of sacred forgetting,
Lethe in a chalice of dedication,
The hex of hope is still undulating
beneath our slack-jawed silence.
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