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It is the static
between two stations:
that soft, unintelligible place
where our voices meet.

Between two stations
we stand, two sword-lengths apart.
Where our voices meet:
sparks and flashing metal.

We stand. Two sword-lengths apart,
our eyes meet, and there are
sparks. And flashing metal
rings are promises kept silent.

Our eyes meet, and there are
accusations hanging in the air. The void
Are promises kept silent?
You are a language I've forgotten.

Accusations hanging in the air, the void
is asking who is more afraid.
You are. A language I've forgotten
slips off my tongue, all apologies.

Is asking who is more afraid
irrelevant now? The question
slips off my tongue. All apologies
end like this.

Irrelevant now, the question
melts away. Like always, in the
end. Like this:
Under each word, only “love”.

Melts away, like “always” in the
letters I never meant to send.
Under each word: “Only love
confuses me this thoroughly.”

Letters I never meant to send,
strewn across your living-room floor.
Confuses me, this. Thoroughly.
This is what love sounds like?

Strewn across your living-room floor
(that soft, unintelligible place).
This is what love sounds like--
It is the static.

a pantoum

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