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Oh, Darling

By Leo Boix

what is that leftover desire

that sunken bluish desire


that creases, blackening   

like a fast burning napkin


as we eat our thick soup

made of a vegetable cube?  


Words, an untranslatable 

ritual, this rare daily fable 


we’ve learnt to recite 

by heart since that night 


we’ve met, by chance 

when something hit us


in the face and nothing

was left behind, nothing


but a new warming taste 

of spit, blood, a soft paste


swallowed by each other’s 

organs, our fat hearts. 

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