Nine Small Sighs

A. Marie/The Larkspur Horne

The Larkspur Horne

And I get torn
by he and she, tugged between
their diverging stars,
she tells me

that I have the makings of an owl,
the moles on my nose and right breast are just right,
how in the night she has thoughts of me
and breaks her wineglass against the table.

And so,
he tells me
that it is not cold beneath the window, because I am warmth,
a red celestial orbiting this fog ridden city, my hips, my shoulders
four fires on the water, balanced
upon lily pads, drifting out, away from him.

I get crunched
in the words they profess to me, frightened
at the prospect of never really loving anyone as they deserve to be.
Somewhat unaware
of how empty are the rooms
I wander through, carrying my hot confection of water, brown sugar, honey.

I do not get lonely. It is odd.
Regardless if it be…

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