Passiflora

minutes with your lips
have become a slow-motion saga
that hours in my hands
have transformed into poetic explosion
thundering through a consumptive
manifest of formless surrender

were there no waves of grace
we’d not find depth in our words
were there no distortion of pain
we’d not need to memorize
the bliss that broke the dam
in the eyes of the other

were there no fire in our touch
we’d not find passion in our flames
were there no gift of eternity
we’d not need to caress
the hourglass
filled with our sweetness

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