There is poetry in ugliness;

a melody in arguments that we play in our heads,

over and over; like a song whose words

we forget but still mumble through the chorus;

the climax on loop until I’m angry all over again,

only to be outdone by sadness.

I read articles where the tone makes a sharp turn

into last year; five years ago; yesterday.

And I shredded the map to this part of my mind long ago,

unaware that one day–yet again–I’d be backtracking, methodically,

to make less sense of phrases hurled long ago.

And this hurts; these blips in our relationship,

like flatlines on a heart monitor where we both go numb and limp

around each other: this didn’t happen. We don’t exist.


What are we really,

if not atoms crashing into each other, hoping for a mate?

If not columns built from elaborate truths and visions

of how we see things unfolding ten years down the line,

only to learn late in life that the future is a cloud of smoke

and we are fading echoes of our pasts.


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