I once painted the rooms of my chest
the colour of you, and in them I dreamed.
And, knowing dreams are real I told them
to you in the morning on your bed.
With you so intimately within me,
how could I expect you would be
so easy to remove from these deep
places and deep thoughts?
I have painted over you a thousand
times, but that did not remove you,
it only cemented your memory in.
So, perhaps rooms and walls are
the wrong thing to have. I should
have an open field, somewhere to
be a hermit, but in the Sun.
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