Box of Bone-Bones

Chilly winds
blow through the streets,
the –
biting cold rips to the bone.
Under the dim torchlight awaits
a skeleton alone,
all a longing, all a moan.
Struck by love, and melancholic,
breathing fumes of gin –
and tonic,
misshapen by scoliosis,
facing slow metamorphosis –
the skeleton will understand
that we are dead,
and so is love.

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