Page VII

My Clavicle

C’e la luna amante. Spread those angelic gifts and soar. Parachute of cargo, grasp tightly upon my tender collarbone and push this mortal through the stratosphere. Dust to clouds from the river of remains; I’ve grown fond of the apsara in you.

Fatigue wound by intoxicated thrust, tracing maps of the uncharted skies. Infinite intelligence proves nothing compared to our pursuit, imbecilic to who is chasing whom. A mere flutter from your winged grace bids all adieu, as we restlessly circle the incandescent moon.

Another safe landing with repeated apologizes. You know I couldn’t have been more efflorescent. My seraph and the initial inquisition, are there any remnants unresolved?

I’ll save the best part for last; and in my retort, no it never has to end.

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