Bottled quiet songs;
they do not sing,
they do not play on the radio.

But our love,
is in the bass;

Booming. Colluding.
Introspective branches
of isolated glory.

Purity.

Here in the midst of an Apocalyptic Summer,
dreams flit. and seasons split the time it takes
to nail upon the cross.

Our sexual biography,
tapped onto typewriter,
placed on paper;

Spent.

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