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My brothers face sunk
when I told him I didn't write anymore
It wasn't that the inspiration was gone,
No, I was content in the moments I cherished
Feelings that well after sex and the coming
down from a high that in truth I can't describe to you

Did that mean that the inspiration was gone?
Or was it that still watered content that kept me
ashore

My lover thinks both but says nothing of it
In his imagination, I am a nova of color
A womb to shelter into
A moon that pulls his tide

I search for purpose along the grooves
of a bumpy white wall
for meaning in all of this newfound
content
waiting for something resembling pain
to give me purpose once again

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