Christina Strigas

Freedom to do anything

you want

is chained to the fog

at six forty five in the morning

when the streets smell like

every foreign and familiar

smell. Hug me close

and cry after sixteen

years of absence.

I feel your loss

squeeze me tight

make death in your

eyes disappear

and help me breathe

in the cracks of your soul.

It looks like Paris stems from

your aura, and this city is

in my fourteen year old

gut. Revoke my love,

press my lies on

an ironing board

refresh me

spray your love

and essence on my skin.

No one waits for the flood

but me. Open my arms

to your tide.

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