i absorb
the noiselessness
in my head
containing esoteric muses
that held melancholia
like a cusps of flowers
holding voids.
silent and sober
they stir the fragrances
of the grim past
and pour them out
in the hollowness of the soul.
like they are made
to stick on your skin
and each time you touch it
they'll prick you with their venom
of the thousand silhouetted nights
that were no absolutes
but, just a mirage
of the undone memories
and our unreal closeness.
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