“Truth only complicates matters.” – Baudrillard
but red wine brings it up
again, tired mouths leaking the ache
of the screaming silence, scared
of the staring walls, time only
measured by the breadth of breath.
“who needs truth?” he asked her.
it only makes you an accessory
to hate and on the losing side
of love.
she told him
she always fell in love in
the fall, but ignorant ears
only heard confession,
not invocation.
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