eyes like God in the dirt.
and a question lingering in throat.
delicate tin hands grasp brushes firmly
while i lie on the floor by the bed.
and wish for a touch.
or a breath on the wind,
even that would sully the solitude.
worlds away,
static fills the atmosphere.

cards are counted.
bets are made.
each wager carries the weight of an oath.
and begs for indifference.
before a single megaton kiss
carries radiation through me.
settling in each bone
as my brain blood boils.
it burns my shadow into the sheets
hanging carefree from the mattress.

the wager is one.
and the tin hands are cold.
the space between worlds has diminished.
no indifference here,
despite efforts.
and cheeks become a pastel pink as i am mounted.

we wished it would stop this time,
before it started.
but wishes are for puppets.
and we are real.
especially together.

M.K. Spurlin. 3/22/2016.