The remains of the day
and your absence - they sway.
From thoughts in no place
to still frames of your face.
In vistas long gone
she writes you a song.
With the whispering breeze
she screams out her pleas.
She pummels and ruffles
the truth that she knows,
she fractures the fractions
you left of her core.
Raptures and ruptures
desires and wishes,
of a poor bride and poor whore
that longs to think of you - no more.
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