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Love does not arrive in a sweat-fuck. Love
arrives in empty beds, all passion’s boast
and self-praise scares it. Lemon and olive
trees bloom, spring has arrived in Gyumri, ghost
city of my soul. Love, we are apart:
parted from our clothes, our beds are empty.
You sit naked by the window. I start
writing lines, stop. My love and the city
I love are far away. We are older
now, no less bolder. You at the peephole
watching me bathe. Love was there and passion
was our birth-right. Never forget, lover,
all our sweat-fucks: that you swallowed me whole,
and I ruptured, an earth-god’s carnation.