seventh tuesday

when the moon swells with a faint glow
and the wind whispers a truth
my innards will shiver and my fingers will blush
with restraint

if it tries to write itself the paper will
burn and the atoms of the ashes will scatter
and drift in space and time

this is about the beauty of the unspoken
this is about the fragile threads i’ve kept in an air tight box
devoid of oxygen, of rust, of life
this is about the truth that will stay infinitely untouched behind my tongue
unless unlocked by another


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