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poetry - backseat
The closed blinds separated us from the world.
We watched the airplanes flying into each other’s wings while we stood apart.
We talked of dinners and holidays as foreplay while the rest of the house slept in discontent.
The constant motion of our mouth has our mind undressed and body hot.
You words flowed into my ears, penetrating the wall of my eager soul.
Slowly and slowly, you went.
We touched no skin.
We revealed no sin.
We unbuttoned no shirt.
We stirred no disconcert.
The world is not made of wine.
Its magic only works so much to destruct the part in us that feels.
On the dead TV screen appeared a Pakistanian woman standing in a sunlit room filled with dead bodies rotting next to her before my mind went shut on the couch, your couch.
You played my favorite songs in your car and I was reading some words, some words of insignificance, at the backseat.
We were on our way home, my home.
Melodies buried our silence into obscurity.
Like two airplanes flying past each other only to divert to the moon and the star, I climbed out of the car.
I stood by myself and watched your car disappear into that lethal and engulfing trail of fume.
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