a painted desert
of a painful past
his art, his armor
etched and inked
forged into his pores
one night as he slept
I ran my hand
across one sandy shoulder
to the smooth slope
of his spine
and I watched him dream
for hours
back and forth
my fingers wished
the devils away
one by one
til only their ghosts
left shadows behind
like whispered stories
on his skin
perhaps
he’ll read them to me
one day if I ask
if only
I could write a happier ending
for the two of us
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