What even is poetry?
I suppose it’s for when life is too weedy and wonderful for prose.
We waited a long time there in the brambles, amidst the tobacco smoke, we talked for hours. What were we on about? It didn’t matter. Together was wonderful.
She motioned towards the middle distance. A gesture altogether fitting for our joyous apocalypse.
Read me the story in the stars. That is what her eyes whispered.
I gathered myself. Trying very hard to remember all the echoes.
The distance remained.
Bewildered I sipped some of the coffee chilling steadily with the onset of evening.
I let the cicadas drown the question.
Beyond a billion years of bones nourished the trees that swayed amidst the rose tinged sky.
The South smelled of mildewed lumber and magnolia.
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