The shrapnel—
the was, the after—
the me-not-you,
splitting hairs like tattered shoes.
It’s something of an anachronism,
rerunning marathons over cratered faces
—dotted bygones of soft pucker-prick.
He fell deaf,
supine, spineless,
gutted ink bottle—
and I taciturn.
See that shadow?
Substratum of my legs
(It’s not yours).
Scheiss, Liebe,
I knifed my tongue for you.
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