r i p / p u l l s

He is the doctor
She his patience
Each immunizing the other
Against thoughts of who they can’t be

His hands are smooth
Rubbing along the inside of her thighs
Like varnish

Her voice is peace
Covering his rage with her mouth
Like foreign wisdom

Their fire is the disquiet of
Overactive palm lines attempting to draw
The image of love into the others heart
In shades of blue and gold

Thunder tears and pulls
Their souls
Like trees from their root

Horizons fold and walls crumble
Into unprotected recognition
Like lingering gods and goddesses
Harbored to hymnal turbulence

He is a postcard
She his map
Each wading through time

Two mandolin stars
Falling like glitter into
Waves of soft reception

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