Yearn
I would wrap your love
around me
like a coat.
I would let your hands
be the sieve
that caught
my soul.
I would let your lips
be the
parachute
that I never
checked.
I would fall on my
anger like a
sword.
To die at your feet
is not just
Love, it is
Religion.
To break and be mended
by hands
divine
and flesh
and soft.
Like stained glass.
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