Binge

A requiem for the split retina.
We spent the night cowering
behind cocktails – gin and tonic,
seven and seven, manhattans,
cosmopolitans until headache.
To say nothing of vomit.
I coerced a failure to blight,
savoring disposition
and temperament,
indulged in radio waves.
Somewhere a window expelled
its shortcomings to the boulevard
before rumors. A traffic light doused
its red. We laid on the spent tiles
of her kitchen floor foraging
porcelain from previous encounters.
Converging.
Dispersing.
Then converging again.
Time forced, digital, to reap
the dawn’s pale spoils,
and she held her eyes
to my thickening pulse,
peeling layers from my spine.

Slowly – she closed her hand.
Slowly – I closed mine.

-r. miller

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