Winter bled through
the suburban landscape. We took
our ticker tape and leaped through
the crude hoops our malaise had placed
along the road. The air there
was overloaded with symphonic fragments
of an unspoken nostalgia, a nostalgia
broken by the turn things had taken.
You burned my forehead with a kiss.
The sky bottomed out.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 