In the midst of it all,
in the mist
or did we miss it all?
That word, that talk,
that thing that never satisfied us,
we tried, though we spent more time thinking of trying,
lying beside lies to make
ourselves feel something—sometimes.

Medications never work, and love is never
sick,
So said a prophet, I think,
whose name I miss,
maybe because I missed it.  We live, for sure,
I am sure of it,
though this romance is lost in the downbeats that
skip between us
frequently.

Apparently it’s air—
where this future
that never can be is fitting. Breaking itself
down into chemical
components, between breaths held and those
lost, revealing timidly its
escape from us.

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