how much can my insides sink down
pulling at the speed of gravity
ulcers tickling burnt lining
time bomb ticking in reverse
tears breach the edge
of the reservoir and grief climbs
out of my skull hovers overhead
then soars toward your memory
or my memory of you
or the memory of what I projected
onto your creased screen, blind contours in the fabric of time and light
color gels dull by the time we reach the plot’s inciting incident
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