452.

Desire fills up
my lungs in a desperate
attempt at drowning.

451.

There is no under-
standing that includes escape
from memory's grasp.

450.

The husk of her pain-
soaked voice, hurtled out so long
ago, still stabs me.

449.

I still remember
the feel of soil there, held
like the earth's prayer.

448.

The picture was cast
in the leering expanse of
her melancholy.

447.

Sometimes it's as if
the world bears its own compass
on hard stories birth.

446.

Her body held sway
under the lights and shadows.
A sexy comfort.

445.

With a look, as if
the sun itself rose within
my bones, calls for need.

444.

Your heart a tender
apéritif to tease the
soul's wanting palate.

443.

There are a million
pictures wearing my face out
there and none reflect.

442.

Hungry to make new
fodder for the, as ever,
growing hate machine.

441.

Left to an obtuse
pyromaniac to set
fire to my bones.

440.

Very little of
what we think is anything
but repetition.

439.

Peace, an elusive
wonder by which all souls wait
by the side for turns.