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Reflection
A metronome knocks
from one side of my chest
to the other, wanting someone
to keep count. I don’t thank you
enough for listening, for your blossoming
magnolias that hear my rhythm.
You are a painter showing your work
to the blind. I’m so sorry for being late
but if you let me in to your exhibit,
I will stare at every piece for years.
We have been bleeding fingers, cut
from splitting the envelope, expecting
love letters, discovering only notice
of collection.
There’s a siren in the distance,
and we’ve spent our lives like
two prayers for the victim. We
have always been two roses
on the wreath at a military funeral,
loyal to a fault for unnamed masses
smothering regrets for greater good,
the only sweet aroma coming
during a sadness most will never
make sense of, causing the crowd
to flinch as two bullets in this
twenty-one gun salute, wearing
our ballistic scars together, arched
f***ing perfect towards the sun, landing
on cemetery lawn, beautifully flawed.
And this love, we pull away from each other,
leaning back on opposite ends of a wishbone
instead of pushing towards one another
to deflate the fear-down pillow that keeps
our hearts apart.
We are city-Spring;
You are a highway wildflower,
lavender under exhaust, waving
unnoticed, and I’m the rain nobody wants,
drops dragging parts of you with me
underground
and darkness has never been
so magnificent.
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