i know that song,
the one about angels
the one about marching and guns
the one about lovers unreachable
the one about days in the sun
then i say cicadas and you cry
all the places where memory attaches
like the lightest touch of lips on eyelashes
there can be no such thing
as stolen fruit, no crime in picking,
or it wouldn't be so sweet
the scent and the color sing:
eat me.
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