On the surface nothing
is left unburnt but dust
off the shelves and
discover a world within
itself, in the lower attics
we birthed the amnesiac
allure of a fresh start, or
what is whispered when
everyone is watching; alone
we sing songs and remember,
live in picture frames, tattoo
birthdays on our breasts,
live gathered about a pyre
of memory until someone
is brave enough to light
a match!
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