the last one smelled like fever and
dead roses,
an imposing home,
a candle burned to the base
with each one of my steps
moving away
but still a resounding
no
at the end of our day.

you smell more like
dawn;  a sun blooming  
despite the surreptitious stars,
and to welcome day home.
a retreat,
an argument building
in that little shell
you panic inside
and you want to face it.
I can taste it.
you smell like fresh scabs,
cologne,
and a long unending
hell that I twist in my
sheets
waiting for the moon to settle,
for the score to settle,
for the spring to burst forth
and enchant me
with her rows of
green and pardon.

if you can make it through
my winter, you can
get me.  if you can make
it, you will have
me.
you will see the garden
beneath my
bramble.
you will see the garden
beneath my night.

“antidote”  

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