Like the blood running in my veins –
lethargically, sluggishly;
like a good wine - slowly seeping in my brain,
without an aura,
like a black cup holding and hiding the light of the flame,
you are here but not here.
And slowly you penetrate into my consciousness,
unwelcomingly.
But what do I do with your arrival?
Am I ecstatic? Am I miserable?
Am I in love? Am I in the aftermath of a love that’s over now?
Am I still yours? Am I your left-over?
Am I claimed? In what way?
Who am I to you? Who am I becoming to myself?
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