Words poured like lac from your mouth. Their meaning thick crimson – crushed and constringed – straining through the march of red ants that always fed them. I stormed through ivory gates – my claudicating limbs carefully avoiding the sticky word puddles that swelled up around me. But it was Sunday and I was insolated by dayglo hope, singed, ready for anything. The smell of bacon, sweat and prayers brinish in the air. Me. You. Bounden by nothing, not here. Not anymore. I was starving so I stroked your cyanotic skin, hoping the heat of my fingertips would make that land-mined, Kevlar-plated heart you buried beat again.











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