when I write this you are sleeping or talking or both

and while I write this you are planning your future.

perhaps your ink is more effective than mine.



because here I lay upon fabrics of the bourgeois

candles of the religious

and scents of unknown essences

thinking of you.



and still while I write someone dies

as I finish my thought.

in the few seconds before pen meets paper

and my self-indulgence,

another woman is raped.



but still I write in vanity longing to

understand rather than know

how to stop thinking of you only.



when I write this you are sleeping or talking or both.

yet here I betray the world when I think of you.

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