We were often
childish as green—love
for our tongues
longed for the taste of strange
from far off places
that stained our lips
with beautiful poems
contorting beliefs
souls burning passion—unconsumed
aroused as wind
in coition with skin—us
stars against a canvas of blackness
smeared into beauty
the only way to see
is to look at them
pressed against black skin
like everything
pressed against something
reveals true intent
the words we press out
of our mouths
as profound as the morning paper.

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