They write about pain
as though it were a color.
As though they could see
its darkness rise across
the moonless sky,
and crawl its way into
their hollowed bones.
As though they could feel it
learn to breathe on its own.

They write about pain
as though it were a promise.
As though it was meant to
break with the urgency of
a sunset crumbling
into silhouettes across
autumnal horizons.
As though they could feel it
collapse into words of silence.

And yet, they say,
pain is the bleakest lover.

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