There are softer things than love confessions
stoppered in wine bottles left on stone,
Drier promises feel crisp between palms
and stay quiet across telephones.
Open my diary and run through the bark,
You will find truth flickering upon liars,
The territory knows the map's unbecoming,
All of my cartography is forest fires.
There are softer things than love confessions,
I wear their crooning beneath cold skin,
There are promises I have never kept
and my breaking is slow burning.
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