This Absent Itch

 

 

A bruise as red, as blood is rich;

A sore that, when in drink, I lack;

I fell into the brink, from which

Not even ghosts come back.

 

Her touch was gone: this absent itch

Would brush my neck and aching back.

The rash would raise, the skin would twitch,

And bruises clouded black.

 

A hurt as rich, as wine is rich;

A burn which even hell would lack;

I fell into a death from which

Not even ghosts come back.

 

 

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