The fan swinging precise and reliable above my head,
and within it this cracked out brain organ is swollen.
my ducts have all been driven dry.
there are shadows at play.
one that falls and one which obeys.
is there really a seven tongue moon?
lying backward across sleepovers and tantrums.
diving upwards toward soft kiss and bedrooms.
opening slowly while the fallen smile does lift
itself up from its oh-so selfish pits.
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