Dolores

Cold fingers trembled on my face,
the voice only a whisper
in the wind.
My hand pressed his flesh
pushing his insides back
sewing him together.

I was his Dolores
and he was me corazón.

My hand lingers inside of him,
hot and red;
I taste salt and metal on my lips.
His eyes are glazed
like the marble floor in the Carniege Hall
where our bodies pressed together
became one.

I was his Dolores
and he was me hombre

It was white,
snow white
and cold,
and it was red
all red
and hot,
and the sound of bombs howling,
of young men and children crying,
guns firing.

I am his Dolores
and he is dead.

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