The lost duplicates

My soul repels you
(Yet draws you close)
Like magnets or planets.
My soul -
With all of its washed out paints,
And filigree of
Broken harps and xylophones.

I'm afraid
I only tend to be in love
With those things that
Don't quite exist, anymore,
Oh messy cliché:
Poetess.

I find myself with
The old year, zipping itself up,
Life tinkering on chaos:
Apocalyptic , ice-burn, tundra.