#guilt

Hard Stuff

“Why does he drink, when the drink isn’t healing?”

Behind vertical panels she watches in a pool of ivory,

still,

thunder strikes.

He runs a thousand miles lying down,

clutching his drowning empathy and speaking in tongues.

 

Age takes a toll but time remains fixed.

She tries to trace a pattern, but

the lines never double up.

Waking then aching. Raging then aging.

The blurred screams of blue and red.

 

She constantly tries to run with him, yet

as her twinkling presence is in his hands, the courage liquefies

He drinks it up. He drinks it all up

And she curls up in the glass prison once again.

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