We Don't Argue


The urge to hold the world in hand,

reined in,

with interlocked gears independently revolving within your palms.

I can feel the shift of the earth within my bones and the wind is my blood,

My breath is as solid as the weight of the earth against my feet.

My imagined words punch the respirating pulse

and cat-eye stitches lacing across silent lips

a cold war fueled by the induction of impotent heat

lying beneath our surfaces.



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