Without the Binoculars

each time her heart zigs,mine will zig with her, all the way across a sea of throbbing
words lining old boxes under undead flesh skies

whenever we walk hand in hand, entwined so specifically around our wrists
my heart sweats more than my hands, losing itself in the wilds of her eyes

when that door clicks behind her
I miss her
even when she’s just checking the mail.

love is borderline obsession, without the binoculars
a way of reminding myself how painful the world can be without
a misheard word or a thought which needs no words to be heard

an inappropriate flutter of laughter, limited to two sets of lungs

love makes me a planet surrounded by a thousand brilliant, shattered glass stars
orbited by a smug, swelling little black hole

which throbs every time she leaves the room and shrinks
each time her smile returns safely to me,
each time she relaxes as well, knowing that I’m all in one piece, relatively speaking.

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