IN, ON RETROSPECT

the peaks of your hands,

these serrated rocks I hold

as tenderly as unexploded

ordnance, as I unfold their

creases and pick scabs off,

let the piquing pinks be,

actualizing something violent

in the staggering silence

of an empty living room

with two unfamiliar bodies,

spiraling out of control,

sitting painfully still.

even as our ankles touch,

the distance is so cold

and motivating / escape 

never felt so fulfilling and

rocks never felt so dense.

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