The words come leaping out of us quicker than we’d realized that we’d even had the thoughts, tho the thoughts, themselves– decades-old bitches and grayed-beard bastards, rioting against everything and everyone who’d ever meant us injury or who’d ever passed us by, each sentence– a bloody-stick beating which’d waited a long time for its due, punctuated at the end– with a single word, like a bullet to the temple, like a blade slipping between the ribs, finding its way home.

“Leave,” she said, screaming it once first.

“I’m not leaving.”

And that’s just how it goes–
some days

no love poems
penned, while daydreaming
into a sunshine sky
not even any
familiar, idle chatter
to fill the stilled hollow
tho the distinction
between the two
less clear

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