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But I’m not a poet.
Bike horizontally m o r p h s into sidewalk.
11:33,
urs
Th day
evening,
the final 41
saunters away.
Crouch.
Hide.
Cover light.
Bike and being,
consciously lifeless,
pressed against the gutter.
P r e s e n t i n l i g h t.
Blink.
I m p r e s s e d o n d a r k n e s s,
like an illuminated
tattoo
lining my eyelids.
Blink.
Rose, rose, arose.
Blink.
1,429 miles, and 205,
68.5 months, 573,
481
heartbeats
separate.
Blink.
You, every blink a new setting,
a n o n.
e m t o
w i
.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.
G r a c e i s f o r c e, | l o v e i s a i r, | d e s i r e i s i s. | T o h a v e a n d n o t t o w a n t | o r t o g i v e. |
Control,
dominance,
malice,
boredom,
action by inaction
– blink, blink, blink.
You. Me. She.
You. Me. She.
Romance novels
bound in strands
of putrid disgust.
A poem of love.
A poem of love.
A love of possessive indifference.
Blink, blink,
but I am not a poet.
-becca
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