Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

inkstorm

when we met up the second time
it was in a cave,
we planned only
to harbor the inkstorm
then leave again

had no matches, lit no fire

we fucked for warmth
and then pretended to sleep,
both choking our eyes shut
afraid
of happiness, that gale wind
that whips
skimming the ink off the branches and brambles
of our planet,
throwing it upon us,
staining us,
then gone again.

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