inquiring.
the way you
wrench your
hands
with nerves
like the curves
of my wrists
are a prison.

sinister.
how your
voice strikes
like a broken
guitar
singing
something about
restringing hearts.

absurd.
grinding
the glass down
with your hips
while I drip
drop like
the distance
doesn’t matter.

and.

we are
irrational
in ephemeral
charm

as if the bottom
of the basket
isn’t so dim.

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