An ointment of lovers’ last caress,
The last dance within forever.

Our secret exchange of saliva.

And that’s
the history
of now.

What is now, but a fractured sentiment?
Segmented participle of soy at lent.

Tofurky,
baked the way you bake things,
perfectly.

The oven harbors
bad hopes and wasted dreams,
while you bore
fruits that are merely struggling to survive.
Or are withered,
and dried.

Oh, Gabriel,
recurring theme
of last night’s dream,
persist for an hour more;

Before;
our household falls to pieces.

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