But I'm not a poet

I'm having problems with my computer, and I can't get the formatting to load. Hopefully, I'll be able to add it some time in the near future.
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Bike horizontally morphs into sidewalk.
11:33,
Thursday evening,
the final 41
saunters away.

Crouch.

Hide.

Cover light.

Bike and being,
consciously lifeless,
pressed against the gutter.

Present in light.

Blink.

Impressed on darkness,

like an illuminated
tattoo
lining my eyelids.

Blink.

Rose, rose, arose.

Blink.

1,429 miles,
68.5 months,
and 205,573, 481
heartbeats
separate.

Blink.

You,
every blink a new setting,
a new motion.
.knilB |  Blink.

He,  a   pixated,   black    and
white,  two   by   two  inch   f
ace   clipped   from   a  yearb
ook,    super(imposed)    ove
r  a   million   potential   bodi
es, none of t(he)m quite right.

Blink.

Rose.

Blink.

Lines and verse
tattered and stained.

You. Me. She. Blink.

Grace is force,
love is power,
lust is air,
desire is is.
To have and not to want
or to give.


Control,

dominance,

malice,

boredom,

action by inaction
                             – blink, blink, blink.

You. Me. She.

Romance novels
bound in strands
of putrid disgust.

A poem of love.

                  A love of possessive indifference.

Blink, blink,


                                                           but I am not a poet.

-becca