Selective

The journey commences in startling fashion,
edging outward from the center of the page.
Truth is a rubber band
slightly frayed from excess use.
I’ve never known you to be gentle,
nor myself for that matter, and this
could be what drives my affection towards you.
Other concerns are wafting through the brisk air,
asking sheepishly for attention.
But our discretion is cold, selective.
In this fluctuating vastness, the details
get swallowed up in the motions
of sound and color and longing.
It is here we find expression.

-r. miller

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