amer.

who are these clouds
that crowd the putrid sky?
they float, pastel greys and blues,
like stuffing drooped in rain water
but they do not stain forever
as her face does in my mind.
the way i know the clouds hanging
from god’s fingers on strings
i know the lines of her face and
the brittle of her bones.
she dissipates from the corners of
my head like Christmas lights
from my porch, its white paint
chipping grated tears
but she is not electronic, mon petit amer.
and she will relapse and i will know her pain
as i know her eyes staring back at me in the mirror.

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mon petit amer - my little bitterness/one.