Hope is a Finite Resource.

Hope courses through my veins,
but one nick and it empties onto my skin. 

Every sun kissed afternoon fills me with desire,
just as quick as the cold nights deplete me. 

Passion presses against my teeth,
but it lacks strength to savour. 

The bottom of the well is translucent,
waiting for every nick and cold night and tepid tongue to quell what’s remaining.  

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