You implore
Answers that I cannot provide
Your stare is blank – absent –
Like the white of my pages
As we sit still – naked silhouettes –
Penciled by the shadows
Of midnight
Beneath the coppered outline
Of a swollen moon, you rise
Your eyes heavy with slumber
To reproach me with silent accusations
Your looming fingers,
Feeble – like broken twigs
They do not supply, you say
As you proceed to tear me,
A masochistic ritual you endure
Forgetting that I can only confess
Truths you have already discovered
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