You say, I am a woman made of dreams
Blood, nerves, hormones, a dark womb
Dear stranger, will you write me a poem
Of stardust, sweet lust, melancholy memories?
I am made of that strand of moonlight
Which descends on new moon nights
Lights a fire of un-wieldy obsession
In ocean waves, love pangs and lunatics
I am that curve in the arrow of time
The miniscule now, all of your yesterdays
And as space, I churn far across the aeons
Burning pages of a book written without us
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