Benjamin Pine


The end of Spring is already written.
It rains the whole day after you leave. 
Each branch grows a small blossom,
the gifts of a lunar eclipse. A loud fog
follows me into my apartment
knocking the doors not open
and not closed, just knocking until
it finally condenses me. I am sick
of hunting you through the wind
without a pistol in my holster.
I need to talk to somebody about this
clanking in my chest and these spikes
in my hands. Something must be wrong
with me. Everything has been feeling
strangely familiar. How should I explain
the bloods on my finger to you?
I am suffocating phantoms. I wait four
months to take photos of the bruises
from last night. I dream of a woman
who instead of making love, asks me
to write tener over her body. Black inks
on pale skin. The stone rolls away.

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