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Jupiters hands

On the other side of the sky lives words trapped under skin, bones, that are screaming to be let free.
On the other side of your soul lives a field of orange; my hands running through the constellations that sleep inside your hair, your teeth, scraping against the cities beneath my tongue.

I can’t remember, the last time I knew where home was. I grew up believing that people were homes, but homes are not suppose to have feet, homes are not suppose to speak; homes, are not supposed to leave you.

I ripped open my hands spilling gasoline all over your bones
the linoleum of my skin spread bare against the air, heavy, where your words should be
but instead sits silence.

Trains rushing down my throat as I tried to speak, say something, anything, just say, something...
The orange of your breath stained the room with a dark red that burned my palms raw
as I tried to search through it for your voice.
Swimming through the planets that float between your teeth, grabbing hold of Jupiter, begging for an answer, he told me;
to stop searching, for home.

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