Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash
At night we were a fresco
painted by an astronaut, our
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.
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