Chain Links in Each Other’s Fence

It happens when I hear his name,
somewhere synapses snap around
my head with his vibrations,

my logic loses grip. There’s foxglove
where my better judgment should be,
poison in my every decision, erodes

us both… He has the type of love
I need: lust running through
the ruins, black box buried where

no one can retrieve, sunlight unable
to steal it away. Unable to read
the lines underneath the palms, they

transform to threads wrapping around
our limp hands, try to wind tighter.
Pulls a strand every time he leaves.

Takes a slice of me with him to drag
across hollow ground, and torn strings
fluttering are all I see these days…


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