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Dec 2018
a ghost dividing like math class, carrying one(self); under
the house: a crayola painting of our trust, the colors melting—
with an eyeless glare—into ****** looking numbers; 1,001
ways that you can ghost me, the updated edition, revised for
Inclusion and Diversity, so no one gets left out of getting left out.

rain reversing itself, falling up into the sky where it holds
itself in, as if a cough; an unbelief in the idea that you are “fallen”;
relationships like wrists that can be cut, so we may bleed
the same blood; love, even old, reduced to a techno of glances
never meeting—we dance, interminably, around the truth

for we have known each other once, and may never again.

as if only gadgets, we are thrown away once we outlive
our usefulness; the past, in our “tech age”, is “information”
and academic, hence we readily move on to the newest thing,
which gives us “love” as a chemical rather than as a bond.

a bond is not easily broken; love, as such, is desynthesized
with the kind of entropy that sets in on laughter—how you
reminisce with a sigh about what was just funny, but no longer.

a flash mob of fireflies describing the night of your mind,
blinking out with a cruel goodbye; illumination suspending
itself over time, only through your belief in who you are.
Written by
stylesclash  28/M/USA
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