
And what was I to them
but a pale sin.
Like cracking a rib.
A dull ache forever if I had stayed.
And what was I to them
but a pale sin.
Forgiveable in the moonlight.
His trangressions
only a trial period.
While the head of my roses
were snapped off,
floating until they sunk under.
Forgotten by him,
by them,
forever.
And what was he to me
but a brief spotlight.
Illuminating
myself
in the cold stillness.

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