Abstract Hour

In the abstract hour where brightness might as well be dark we hold each other at arms length lest the desires transpire and we fall tumultuously into thinking less of ourselves and who we really are.

We are rudders rowing in circles in the cool water boiling as flies congregate around the light that exhudes out your skin’s flourescence. I count myself among them, and you are learning it yourself, your radiance reveals every inch of my mundane frame, every pox, every shortcoming, every ounce of blame.

Your smile is in similitude to the similies in symphonies, each note of you strumming the universe’s chords: you are the interlude and the silences that strike like thunder between the keys punched quickly that pitch you through the atmosphere: the coda and its consequence, the treble and its terrible torment of my heart, the clef clefts its sinews apart.

We are irreverant to the relevant and reign instead the symptoms of our situation, heartbeats and heartaches that match up scars like trading cards with stats exclaiming our triumphs and our downfalls. We list ourselves as strikeouts, pitched slightly off the center and each of us missed.


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