There’s still love here,
it tick-tocks in our
stomachs tight
from over-exposure.  Like an apple
rotting,
what made it
weakens, looking as death
would seconds prior to realizing itself.

Another pint works as filler,
filling the holes
quietly in lovely melodies made bitter
by over-thinking-over-time-and-over-reactions,
losing what’s close
with no grip on it leaving.

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