Full-bodied laugh rumbles,

rocking your body,

escaping a black sinkhole.

I've earned your echoing song

that stops too soon.

You're a dying star, 

suffering in secret silence.


The stench of chili 

churns my stomach,

a surprise last supper.

Missing beef crumbles on ranch-drizzled pizza,

arms-linked, light hearted getaway 

into narrow darkness.


Sudden fluttering of veined paper,

to mouth "happy birthday" like an apology.

Granted rest,

only to be haunted by your silent "I'm sorry."


You sit with me in a screen-lit living room,

You're free

from a container of sterilized skin and sharp bones - 

star debris, after the explosion.

Invigoratingly chilly,

like my skin is welcoming ice crystals.


With the rippling of translucent cloth, 

I'm inside a glass case 

searching for you on the outside.

Goosebumps smoothed,

stuck hiding from a giant, inky eyeball

that swallows children.

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