I love the thought of love
so that it pains
opens in my chest a hollow space
and a wind at my throat.
I wail though I cannot wail
so that I swallow
and only taste regrets
a rosehip wine with an endless stem.
She cries to the red star
so that her words are lost
in breath of
I mistook them for my own.
I'm in love with a storybook
but cannot find my looking-glass.
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