9.17.18

This is how
we leave our shapes behind.
Midnight, and we find
ourselves colliding
in a cost-effective kiss
destined for posterity’s
unattended storage space.
The race is on, decisively,
divisively. Good things
come to those who weight
their instincts down with guilt.
Certainly, we’re coming,
but for what?
This droning chorus
of crossed wires?
These fires,
whose blue-gold flames
illuminate the nethers,
are tough enough to quench.
Wrench what’s left of me
from your ribcage.
I’d like to be alone.

-r. miller

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