I cannot be a victim of an unnamed crime.
Spent the day mourning the obliterated star of my youth
Sat on my opus like an old man
Used the word opus not quite ironically.
I don’t have a word for this, I said at 33.
Flaunted my bad vocabulary. Called things rad.
Nearly drowned in a sea of memories with not a word to save me.
Pondered the shattered mirror
Practiced throwing rocks

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We are two cells bumping blindly against one another in the body of God.

The almost imperceptible rhythm of electric lights under your skin pulsing out a code that something in me knows.
They say you can only walk the path under your feet — but how’d we meet?
This radiation is killing the whole world from the inside, but we can’t stop the message.
The self-destruct code has been sent and we are sitting on the button, guilty as two children can be.
They they they have words for all these feelings I’m sure
But words are rendered meaningless with time, and I’m
inventing new languages to say the same old thing.

In the long silence after I have asked the question, I am thinking
of whether or not you heard me and if you have an answer.
I am alone with my thoughts.

I am self-contained.

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