Max Fomitchev-Zamilov, Poetry

Максим Фомичёв-Замилов, поэзия

The loss
Is a perfect harmony
And a perfect dissonance.

The final chord of love
Is sharp
For it is played
On barbed wire.

The shape of you
Is medicine turned poison,
A thorn with no flower.

Behind this curtain of flesh
Is an abyss,
The dreadful hall of mirrors
Where your name echoes in perpetual reflection.

Letting you go is like draining
Blood from a slaughtered body –
You can never get it to the last drop
No matter how hard you try.

Do not torture me any longer!
I beg you,
Leave me now
When I love you the most!
Do not say good bye,
And spare me the betrayal.
Ignorance is bliss.
My love is my asylum.

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