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Campfire Pantoum

bessore
bessore
Posted underProse & PoetryThe BucketUncategorized

They say the full moon makes lunatics of us all
and I agree when I look at it, floating through the chlorine.
I decide that it controls more than just the tides.
My hair latches onto my skull when I kick myself upright
and I agree when I look at him as I’m treading water
that he must not be here, that this can’t be happening.
My hair latches onto my skull when I come up for air
and breathe deeply, drinking in cricket chirps and reminding myself
that he must not be here, that this is all happening
inside of me, just chemical reactions. I close my eyes
and breathe deeply, drinking in cricket chirps and forgetting
what it felt like to be held on the hot concrete,
eyes closed, all those chemical reactions flipped inside out
as the hot sun baked us into bits.
What did it feel like to be held on the hot concrete?
I try to ask him but he’s too far away to hear.
I know that the hot sun baked us into bits,
but I wonder if it ever really mattered, any of it.
I try to ask him but he’s too far away to hear.
The water’s cool arms hug me tight and he stays still.
I wonder if it ever really mattered, any of it.
Blood spills from my sole when my foot catches rough paint,
but he’s still while the water’s cool arms hug me tight.
I stare at him in defiance of my life and his lack thereof.
The blood spilling from my foot blooms near the bottom
and I wonder if it controls more than just the tides.
I stare at him in defiance of my life, his lack thereof,
and the fact that the full moon makes lunatics of us all.


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