a poet's emphysema

The day will come when
all the love in
the world
won’t be able
bodied enough, or
will simply choose

to save us.

You’ll believe with nightfall
we’ve breathed our last lights.

You’ll struggle and wheeze as
deep breaths turn into fights to
the death with

what’s left of air.

Allowing alternate histories to
on a dare,

flipswitch futures sicken
youthful skin

and tear ducts but
nobody gives
a fuck until it’s
happening to them,

crying over spilled oxygen.

Apologies are just a series
of words that
never cared to

begin with.


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