I am languidly somnolent.
The lack of your presence
is catching up on me.
I’d borrow Icarus’ wings
to escape this comatose mind but
he’s living in the past
and I am too far ahead
to go back.
I seek for the luxury of your words,
find comfort in the nooks and crannies of
your intricate sentences.
I am half broken, with an insentient anatomy.
I wish you were a little bit sober from the intoxication of your own destruction.
I wish you knew me then, maybe you wouldn’t be so callously kind.
D C de Oliveira ©2017
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