A Distraction

I have thought of you
part way through a sentence
while speculating the appropriate
nature of my next apostrophe’s face
or perhaps while trying to recommend
Sorrow to not bleed my lead to death
or my paper to a seven,
with the five minute warning calls
cascading around desks stuffed
with streaming anxieties tempered
by back pocket calculator plans,
and around you
but never touching,
from behind caverns of literary genius
with more stability than aspiration
for a perfume as the hours drown,
like the screams of murdered futures,
with me deafened to the horror
because my eyes won the hand
and I adore the way
you flip your sandals,
so impervious.



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