By | 1 May 2020

Sunday afternoon, gulping down the conversation
as if we’re in a heatwave and you are cooled water.
When I cross over do I become you? My breath
is sensitive, like photons, and I am lost in space
between where you end and I begin. As if we return
to ourselves after we are loved. We are forever
killing the things we find sweetest, like freshly
picked cherries and Sunday afternoons. When I cross
back do I lose you? If it were winter, things would
be different. There is no tethering chord for the next
few moments. Think of all the undiscovered planets,
casually dying from overheating. Fault lines create
opposition far too easily. The black cherries will never
be eaten. Swallow into night, and be done with it.

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