Atrocities

My weary eyes
have seen a thousand
atrocities, but nothing quite

as beautiful as your
breath on my
neck, the way you

nurture my heart,
keeping
it in a crocheted box filled

with tattered love poems
memories written on tissues

feeding it leftovers
of tragedy

with your loving, unwavering
hands, with hope and pain

tattooed on each
knuckle, our dreams
nothing more

than a murder of crows
flying south for warmer climates.

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