Ice in your gin

Brief_klein

 rainy Sunday morning
the world gets a little closer
silent, numbed by your indifference
carelessly discarded

more affection even to your dead flowers
or the dust in the hall
I am crushed like the ice in your gin

my thoughts slow down
like the cold water running down my spine
a last resistance between my pelvic bones
as to the rest there is no fighting any more

more affection even to your dead flowers
or the dust in the hall
I am crushed like the ice in your gin

vanishing imprints
clotted traces of your aid keep on growing
stains of your love turn into dark
bruises like jewellery on my body

more affection even to your dead flowers
or the dust in the hall
I am crushed like the ice in your gin

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