Writing on rice paper
chopsticks in soy sauce
dripping the impotence and failures
of our hearts.
Maybe this is the end to our means
scattered among sushi
and empty miso bowls.
Draw me in your seven pointed stars
Imitating bones and skin
Put my eyes in the middle
Let me stare at you as long
as we are able
This crumpled paper will become my lips
This is what you kiss at night
in your prayers before bed
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