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Your voice is like black treacle.
Thick and dark
And rich and

Pulling me under
Slowly.
A quicksand which envelops me
The more I struggle.

Sweet:
Wrapped unkempt and
Unpolished around this heart

This heart,
Which bloomed unexpectedly
Despite, or because of
Previous rain.
It only revealed vibrant colour
In the light of
Your sun.

Low:
It threads the air like
So many balloons on a birthday
I'll ignore, hoping for another occasion.
It's up to you.

Sweet and low, I'll lie
In bed and hope, counting months and lie
To my reflection,
Pretending I don't mind.
My mind replying that I'm lucky.
Battles
I can't escape, engaged in war
And nothing else.

I hope for a cliché.
A dream I unexpected.

It's up to you.
And I've always thought that I was such a patient person.
Here's hoping the next four or five months or so fly by.

N.B. The grammar in second to last line is intentional. I've been reading E.E.Cummings lately.
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