In the interest of better bonding
we’ve taken to making love
on panes of black glass.
Roiling the sheets,
on and on,
tumbling through a longing
for something to crack,
for stinging
cuts,
for lubricant
blood.
So help us,
pain is that feeling
accessible when no others are;
what’s been severed
speaks loudest
just before
it dies.
Dark Matter 
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