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Jun 2018
a list of soft breaths assembled into
a jenga tower, a spine filling with cool
water each time you remove a block

crumbling into a 500 millisecond
*** mix tape--your greatest hits
condensed into a sigh--when you pull
a voice you don't recognize

an "i love you" that doesn't belong

you rebuild the tower, each time
with less breaths than the last

until there is nothing for you to relive.


a rainstorm that tails you silently,
when you turn around--lightning
that must be read in braille, a slight
shock at your fingertips that arrives

after the poor english is decoded.

a type-b personality sulking furtively.
guts that draw the sound out of thunder
as it nervously bounces around your intestines.
full, you ***** up the flash into the sky, so
that you can eat your emotions again tomorrow.


quicksand that you can carry
in a backpack and then empty
onto someone's doorstep so that they,
too, can feel the essence of a memory

that gets hardwired into your brain
through repetition--and then must be
vanquished through stillness and nothing.

an atlas of g-spots that shows you how to
contort your words into all the right shapes,
so that they fit into the brokenness of the moment

making it whole with your presence.
Written by
stylesclash  28/M/USA
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