He was false,
but dawn rested
on his word.
No Adonis,
but he snared
with net surer
than Hephaestus'.
His arms warmly
received me.
With words sweet
as curséd pomegranates
his cool breath
stole into me.
This song
runs aground
damp cheeks.
To him it was.
In me a sunken whisper remains,
As the white mote grows fainter
on monotonous blue.
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