Twenty seven megahertz. Imagining myself in the restroom choking on a crushed throat. This fact is separated by a lack of sleep and much consumption of eleven dollar nostalgia.
A forced talisman of luck and truth. Like words etched onto monumental slabs of cheap granite. Floating in me, two forces join and near a ******. Above my clavicle, closest to the tainted essence nesting in between white skull and black heart. The forces fall like dead and wingless rocks from Heaven.
I try to remove my phantom from you. I try to put myself in your new shoes.
The old ones discarded with the techniques of innocence and lessons of a true first love.
You glow now. From every glossy cover I see you are strong and your wounds smoothed.
The trenches filled and paved. Lonely cathedrals blossom from your naked body. We all wait quietly to worship and sacrifice. Our scratchings wait and you open your mouth.
You open your legs and we baptise our sins in the crashing. We are all reborn of you, inside you.
Away and always this Hell turns back.

Somewhere far away, MI.

The third hurricane. And the few parts that skip, pierced and questioning. Two kinds answer with the days of telephoto webs, before there was much more to be said.

Diamonds spill over floors, on fingers then become squares from the tub's refuge. Fitting places for best friends.

Seas of sweat sway and break near the stucco. Final snowslide in ecstasy just before the window. Seasons of emotion and music hold no breaths.
The snow searches. Wondering influx.

"Just beyond the lungs, the soul waits."