Hot

We ripped through the sky hot as a meteor:
Believe me, I knew heaven through that pain.
A streak
blindingly
breathlessly
brief
then gone.
The scar on my heart traces its path.
Yes I have written poetry for you
but I don't read it anymore.
At night, I can sit in the shadows of our park
for hours and sort through stars,
one by one,
searching for the one you said was mine.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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