Dolore Crescente

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A place
burned behind my
lids, white spectral sun
enveloping, softly, lapped like
fresh milk

by my
clear and greedy
eyes guilty and forever longing
curious

pressed gently into my warm palms
a tender object, a sensitive brush of fingers on electric skin but
(Oh)
it'll still be there, blooming,
crashing out of memory like white foam- lilies of vivid stone when
I get back, when I open (them) again and again and again
like new wings, not delicate but strong

it's that feeling that it wasn't just a dream after all
I was truly open-opening, unfolding, unsealed
I dreamt of the things
I can do now
I wanted them, they smoldered like coals,
flickered like insect wings caught in my hands,
crushed in desperate, nervous fingers, sticky
those desires, they were
bitten between dry lips, and held between quick breath,
pulled between snarled hair, flattened beneath restless feet,
twisted into swirling tingling knots deep in my cramped belly

but my eyes flickered, flicked stung
open, my fingers unfolded, fluttered
something unfurled and stretched out, danced

it is, it is not, a romantic notion because everything is
wide, wide, wide open!
little past, small and hopeful, come to the future with me,
I have cracked its thin shell.

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