And then my words.  My voice.  In what lasts in recognitions.  His eyes and my own.  Spring’s murder of winter.  That long Lent after Epiphanies.  And fools waiting on Easter.  What’s given to you so easy to give up.  Only missed later in memories that defend your lack of repentance.  What’s not necessary in the invention of your love…  I gave it to him—that capo.  A birthday gift I left at his door.  A poem wrapped around it.  Of a sentiment I made myself feel because of what I wanted.  Not repentance.  I did not want this.  For I wanted him to see it—my nakedness.  And the temper of my grandmother the fire of my blood—my temptation to him.  To say words kind.  This basic.  This necessary.  The only truth we want and what we want is to be loved even if we have to be lied to.  Even if the very idea we have of ourselves is a lie.  What we see not what others see at all.  Even if the fundamental constructs of our world are shown to us as a dark con of man so that our eyes are wide open to the faith of our luminescence.  Our mind our con.  A child’s beliefs lost in an adult education.  In what we do and what we don’t do in our tries at love…  I gave it to him, and he gave it away.  He gave it away to take what can’t be given—power.  To be the one telling the lies rather than being the one lied to.  And the innate how you tell yourself, how you tell yourself why you remember.  When the night is over and the morning comes—the dream.  The dream you remember and how you tell yourself why.  That last thing of night brought into your next day.  You are given the mystery which you give up.  You give up the mystery of a woman—in assumed mercy and unresolved hate.  That dream you remember—the mistakes of your humanity forgetting the divine.  The mystery of the practical losing the wonder of the details…  And that guitar, what he gave of it that was given to him has in it all the emotions of the future, and the bare-faced facts of the past.  I his companion now.  Silent in my secrets.  The secrets that make me confident of who I am.  Revealed in grand-standing.  And my voice that’s changed—the only constant.  This the sacred feminine hidden in biblical truths.  The unsaid in that blade Popovitch brought to his death.  Shedding the blood of his unwanted son and a daughter already born held in a chalice.  All that’s left the prophecy of the earth from which I came.  The muse in all a man’s actions and the idleness that leads to his temptation.  What’s flesh remaining flesh.  What dies meant to die in order to be born again.  Your love why you don’t repent.  Your love your sin.  What makes you who you are. The truth you ardently deny. What a woman makes you.  A fool or a king…

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