I have moments where
my fingertips breathe out your name
onto loose-leaf sheets so loudly
I can hear the letters bleeding
into the paper like a synesthetic high
but our synthetic passions
ring false on lye-stained soapboxes
I can't wash myself clean of
because your saccharine
leaves a cloying aftertaste
and though artificial comfort
is all my heart can care to buy
I have long since paid my dues
to your existence
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