Are you my Yeats and I your Maud,
each straining toward a secluded repose?
Are we feigning an artificial abode
for the other? We trample and laud
cracked dreams in that winepress
(wrath, angst, euphoria), our eyes drunken,
Besieged in this gilded and broken
Deception, our half-baked love pressed
To staunch our brightest wounds. I,
Timid, silent, trying to be who I should
And you, trying to find where you would
Be going. Always leaving, the goodbyes
Suffocating the so few returns, all
The while incubating this dream,
This haunting longing that seems
To never have before existed yet, calls.


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