criminal 

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To love you feels like a sin.
I beseech you, darling,
please let me in.

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Ghosts

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You haunt me with your absence.

I catch glimpses of you,
in the lone dusty corners of my room;
in the indent of what could be two bodies tangled on a bed, and even
in the cracks on my lips
(I don’t have yours to kiss).
I haunt you with her presence.
The differences are striking
between her body and mine.
you close your eyes:
the feelings could have been the same
but her lips are too soft,
her waist too thin,
her hair is curling against your skin.
We are ghosts –
existing in another realm,
in a different reality
where the end was only the beginning
of the continuation of the thrill
of a love, clandestine
blurring all the lines –
haunting each other
in the repressed desire
to be one but not together,
to strip ourselves
of circumstances and consequences,
to be invulnerably vulnerable
in the face of pretentious pretension
that there is nothing left
but the existence of memories
made in absence of our existence
even when every touch
says something quite different.

– j.e.e

send to: all 

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I thought, back then, that suicide would be a great finale act to end the magic show of life. Drive a sword down your throat; the audience watching in horror and wonder. Stepping inside a box, closing it, and once it’s reopened, the whole world will wonder how you’re gone. 
Now you see me. Now you don’t. Leave them in an illusion; have a cruel play on their feelings.

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