Love is On the Horizon. Behind the Pollution. Next to the Dump.


Tomorrow I’ll remind her of yesterday.

The Solitary forget that now
Is a purveyor of catatonic possibilities.

Yet, the Solitary become fascinated
When a minute hand ticks
Like the blinking numbers
Of an electronic device,
Too difficult to set in time.
Believing that a new fate resides
Upon the hour of their anchored mistake;
As if a broken moment
Guarantees a do-over.

But when I touch my cheek
And model the caress
Of muscle memory-
The spasm of clumsy fingers
Will be less of a trip
And more of a fall.

The umbra censors optimism.

The Solitary forget
That a reaction to a memory
Is a choice, but to forget a memory
All together is an accident.

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