The Wind City of Morocco and Autumn’s Return

I left my heart, bleached white from the sun,
in a seashell city
or perhaps, buried in the sand
windswept and a thousand years
I called it broken, weathered, and torn
and yet, here I am
uncoiling, unfolding, unraveling 
first, I open my eyes 
next, my mouth
last, the worst, my heart

it’d grown dusty with time
still delicate as the wings on a housefly 
I held it in my hands and
placed it on the windowsill,
hoping to catch a few rays of light.
some passerby saw the dried blood 
and left flowers on my doorstep 
if I still had one, I’d have felt a thunder in my chest

with autumn comes early sunsets
thought I was bursting with color 
only to realize — alas!
I’m swamped in gray and black 
thought I could outrun her here
in a land unknown, all feeling is stranger
even one as familiar as she

once I fell in love; or was it despair?
twice I clamoured out of it.
I used to see skeletons on bridges and
decompose on the bathroom floor 
three times, I pulled myself up by my strings
and like a doll, danced myself back to bed
tear streaked

now, I see the gray outside,
wrench my heart back from the windowsill
(where now the insects gather) 
and carry the dried out, withered thing
a thousand miles, battered by sand and wind 
to a seashell city 

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