Everything I love is always on the move, say they don't wait for me like God & like my ex-lover from whom I learned love could also be a metaphor for fire. Dreadlocks spread their lushness on my head— her making: she said she doesn't like boys without them. I still carry them thinking someday she will heal our wrecked ship. I always have this puzzled unscrambled dream. In it, I sit beside a grave scribbling a note ribboned with love messages thinking a hand will write back to me but all I always return to is a crumpled paper. Last week, I saw her in the arms of another man with lush smiles. I swear there's no bayonet in her heart. My body is lost in a labyrinth, I want to call my body mine again. I stand at the mirror every morning, but my body is absent in the mirror's reflection all I see is her, is this how love snatches what it doesn't own?
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