Cockchafer

If it’s full moon I can’t cry,
questions are freezing in my mind,
fingers are stretching through glove holes.
I promise myself to mend them
but memory drawers are locked.

Maybe you told too many stories,
(I still believed in blue fairies)
night butterflies armies
overwhelmed the white lilac
bending towards us,
we were sipping a lime tea
(so bitter and sour)
from the same glass,
the sands squeaked under our steps
like crystal sugar.

When the moon waned
I sent you a teardrop
wearing a cockchafer plate.
It popped on the shoe point
and you crushed it.

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Categories: My Poems in 2010 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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