Where Do The Words Go

Words, you stampeding whores jumping from anyone's dampened lips…

I need and crave their perfect, ripping, costly touch, but they're gone.

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Rain soaked the soft, oaky earth where I jammed in a heel and heaved at the weeds. Daylight withered in the dusk while I tore at a sea of blooming garlic weed crowding the bloodroot and swelling peonies.

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I don't want everything, just one thing

that steals my nerve and makes me gasp

that one embrace like gravity