Poem that loves.

For her, love isn’t intimacy.

but

shredding of the soul. into pieces. collecting the pieces. locking away the pieces.

It isn’t the holding of hands, of my whole body or touching of my skin or flesh…

Somewhere in the well, my feeling, those pieces. are always there. imprinted with the memories of you. sworn. with the memories of you. They can’t be awaken again. or taken away. or replaced.

I don’t love. by the holding of hands, of my whole body or touching of my skin or flesh…

I love

by keeping you in the well, in my feeling, in the pieces…

In that windy night, love is my silent tremble. behind your back. your hair’s smell. and the wind. the longing. the little contact. tear that trails behind our path.

and your eyes. different. shielded. locked.

You hurt me that night.

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