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I switch the radio off, sometimes
I switch myself off
when I hear the songs he used to
like to borrow his words from
when he’d try to say he loved me,
not because I still love him
or never did,
but something in between.
The passage of years that
took this place apart
has replaced the sacred relics
that rendered us so beautiful in our sins,
hairline cracks on sandstone and
inadvertent tarnish marks on bronze
subverting the intention of the light
and sending it elsewhere,
illuminating ordinary places
and casting in gray irrelevance
the shrines and milestones
that we had bruised with multiple
autopsies in our want of understanding
of what had gone wrong.
I’ve heard the other music,
borne of instruments suffused with
the spirit of a more benevolent
future and act of unmasking,
anointing our past with a melody
that leads us away from the cliff
instead of over it, shields us
from our proclivity to repeatedly
choose the same wrong things and
fall into recurring hurt like déjà vu
where hoping feels claustrophobic.
The corners of dawn curling
around lyrics yet unwritten,
freedom and her wild dark hair.
A newfound voice, towering
in effortless resonance,
waxing rhapsodic about how
a site of ruin
grew wings.

Image by photographer Gable Denims


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