I wring hands made of clay, and twice as heavy. I can't coax tears out of these almond eyes any more. I exhale a cloud of dust like scalding breath against the cool skin of my perfect lover. The rain comes again, soothing my seared lungs without washing away the rust. I can feel it still nurtured there with careful abandon. I rub my aching chest with muddy palms. I ease the words out with the practice of a bulimic, past internal snags and through protective reflexes; the letters expelled in a spattered mess.
And there's always still so much left.
Even tired and drained, I'll never be able to count to infinity. The exact amount of my devotion.
10:51 p.m. - 2015-03-3
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