New Romantics

By | 1 August 2016

House light goes down around our argument. My mouth corners creak with cake openings, old-timers’ black and white loop story. Preferred code. I’ve forgotten already the part and you watch like a junkie cut laser neat: wife wife wife. Echo makes the salted table inconsequential, the fruit bowl falls away, the render crack waits blind in the wall above the gas heater. I hold your hand and you squeeze me electric. The bed is white noise.


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