You don’t feel the weight
of your eyes on my veins,

not a game, or always
a game between us

statuette in limestone.
Through setting suns

or hummingbird wings,
there isn’t a difference:

oxygen. It’s seven a.m.,
my head’s filling too loudly,

hearts still beating the same.
But when it’s not skipping,

it’s sunken, deflated
vessel fashioned from ribs

the sentiment doesn’t age,
but the intention does.

Still, there’s starlight
reflecting in the lake,

phantom heartache
leaps, and leaps again.


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