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There is blood on his hands.
Today it is only the shadow
Of what is certain to come,
But tomorrow, it will be linked
To a place and a name
To misery and regrets that
Will burn deep within his veins.
She does not yet know him.
Their meeting will be
A marvelous occasion
That she will boast about
To all of her friends –
At least, for a while –
Until it becomes bitter.
Less than love, less than she
Had imagined it would be
Behind closed doors.
She will bleed for him until
She can give him no more;
Whether it will be enough
To move him, or only enough
To make him laugh, is not
Yet written on his hands –
But he is already stained with blood.

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