Running with the rain

I told you I read Hemingway
and Graham Greene.
You told me I wasn’t
important enough for a spy
to be interested in.
But my words are
more yours than mine.
And I can make them
occupy the spaces in your soul.
So that your deep longings
migrate, and your thirst flails,
charged with insanity.
As you wait for my lips,
to touch yours.

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