The Skeletons of Writing

The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:
soft and torn with a leaking edge,
My breath sinks into creamy lines:
a fusion of cursive, print,
and shallows of wine,
My lashes accumulate dust
from love-dazed writing,
My hands grow skeletal
under crinkled lighting. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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