She’s making a distinction, I guess.
Her pensive eyes interrupt my breathing
and my lungs freeze as my hands quiver.
Yes, she’s making a distinction,
so full of grace is she.
And what am I full of? I wonder,
sinking into sofa dream deluge.

Most likely indecision,
a touch of embarrassment,
a vibrant apprehension
at the mention of my name.

Insane bouts of introspection
goad me on through her quickening storm.
She’s making a distinction, how fortuitous!
between ravishment and ravaged skies,
between nourishment and nothingness,
between necessity and me.

-r. miller

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