You darken each slice as if it is the flour
that has forgotten where in the oven
you learned to first go mad, alone
the way each moon before breaking open
lets you have one last look
mixed with smoke to make amber
then harden in the ̶ you eat
crust that’s been reheated, bite
into the night sky where your teeth
come back to life, catch fire
stripping your lips to the bone
no longer soft, swollen from kisses
–burnt bread ̶ you feed on stone
while it’s coming apart from the silence inside
–by the mouthful, what once was a love song.
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