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I am mapping out sound
until the partials are raw
I want to hear the waves
that inhibit my yaw. It’s so
silent within six degrees.
Nothing of potential lies
above me. Relentless and
assured, everything I see
taunts the dissonance of
what is and used to be.
I view the sunrise within
routine, along with every
hour few and far between
death as it lives vicariously,
prefaces priceless youth and
between bitterness and
selfishness, it’s bitterness
I choose. And if I could trade
away innocence to have you
in the end, I’d do it over and
over–I’d run away every time,
fail you again and again like
the solider with no potential
looking up, trying to fill a
bottomless cup. He was nice
and I cried in the bathroom
before heading eastbound. I gave
away a friendship I accidentally
found. But we both watch the sun
rise in routine. We both read the
horizon for potential few and
far between.

It was the cigarette ash I
smudged on your day, and
atop a looking glass on days
I got paid. It was in the swelling
of pupils, my eyes no longer
green, as well as every fucking
hour few and far between. It’s
my old behaviors sealed in
cellophane that I’d never take
back, even for free–even though
I never had to feel you as a fiend.
Instead I sat sickened by reflections
of me behind parallel lines white with
greed. What I’d give to disintegrate
into decibels of sound and become
the vibrations of every life form
you’ve found–it’s something I can’t
say aloud–but you wouldn’t even
recognize me now.

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