• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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Sometimes she cries citrus tears
and bittersweet accumulates
like a bad taste,
an emotional bile.

the essential balance
of being, that intricate
precarious tilt of self.

And because her heart
is an abstract artist,
flinging jaded jagged lines
and oblong shapes

onto reality, she longs
for the comfort of soft blue,
summer dusk cradling
a new moon. Unfettered harmony,

the colour of sadness
diluted by whimsy.
Imagination’s hammock,
unassailed by melancholy.

Look now, the embers of love
are dying. All that remains
is an obsidian darkness
so complete and overwhelming –

but in which
still glitters
if you look closely enough.