Your eyes have been drinking all the fissures
that taint our story of love, maim the field
of warmth; and break the circuitous leisure
into hours of disbelief, doubt, pity,
feigned indifference. You even give in
to desires you do not really have -
taking the shape of a body, trying
to emerge a form... It is nothing but
the failure of wax to die a meaning.
Eyes are the gaps, my love; seeing is judging.
Give up your mind and find the nothing that
has always perfused love - you will be free,
even of me.
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