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Loonly

I suffer from a disease.
It creeps past bedtime
through fine ridges between threads
of winter blankets
and gets to me
in that deep pit
on the left side of my chest
where once used to be
a beating organ,
just essential for survival,
Until you were felt.
Pain exists there, as I know
like a thorny autumn bark
And refuses to leave
till I promise
to every inch of me
part by part
one day they'd be home
reviving beneath your skin,
between your breaths
Spring would emerge
long caught in limbo
But presently,
I suffer from a disease
It's called loneliness
And the only cure I know
Is you.

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