They spent the turnaround
of summer, wrapped up
in the physicality of love,
masking bloodrush and desire
with child's play and
heart-shaped declarations.

The miles, they split
between overreaction and
saccharine niceties, fingers
hastening to locate
numerical salvation and ears
awaiting the homicide
of a dial tone.

But the casualty
was not time, space or sound,
the injured party was not
love, caught in the atmosphere,
travelling at the speed
of light.

The flick of the
executioner's switch and
tumble of the axe
only fell swiftly on
the body of reality

- friends and family
of a past and present now
rendered worthless, once again
sacrificed for the hungry
tongue and grappling
hands of a distant future.

And they made the bed
of so-called love with
the linen of triumph
and conquest, slipped
between the sheets of
egocentricity and carelessness
and rehearsed the misconception
of forever...

04/17/2004

Posted on 04/17/2004
Copyright © 2024 Karen Michelle