Unsent Letter #7

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

I love edges. Anything that can take me down another city block, around corners; into the permanent. The air is lousy with shouts from irritated cars. It’s all breakable; you tell me joy is the number 8, always doubling back on itself. There is a catch in your voice; you would rather be home, digging in the garden until the sensation of floating ebbs into a drop of rain but this is no longer an option. Monsanto happened. Decay is left.

I want to plan a full color escape, feel the brush of your hand against my cheek. Until everything is simple math: minus me; plus you; divide us both in two, but this is no longer an option. Monsanto happened. Decay is left.

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