Original Poetry: blazon

My eyes are drops of rain.

My hands are passive voice.

You are the apathy

wine

watered down that I drink in secret

harsh midsummer.

 

I am wire

stone

and dry

rough parchment down to my knees.

 

My feet are illusions

even to me,

but I make footprints

when I run in the rain.

 

You stand far off to the left

while I crouch down in the center.

 

I am a birthmark

and you are not worth half

of me.

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