this world could fit on a postcard
but betrays the bounds of envelopes
and symbolism
as we project ourselves
through simultaneous space
light particles ricocheting from one to
another
we find that our stories
have fewer neat corners
and need two or three sides
of the page
a sudden shift
and the screeching of tires
i'll tell you my stories
again and again
until I find you
so deeply within them
i realize i
am satisfied with your
head nuzzled in to my neck
and a pen
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