Tigs Huertas

Weds 25th

The pores of familiar skin;
hand painted, 
pixels.
Glowing too, 
not like obvious stars.
Neither like black holes.

What will you see?
You'll read my book, 
hear your words.
(I'll say what I mean,
you'll hear what you want)

You are not the sun.
I rose before you.

Forgive me if my stars are 
not bright,
my black holes not quite 
dark enough
to hold you.



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