Bottle Rockets and Shooting Stars

Even though
the lights have become
mercurial,
and

the effervescent act
remains empathic,

the future without you
looks increasingly 
ectoplasmic.

Primordial elasticity
administered endermic
despite passionlessly   
lackluster performances.

Tourniquet tightened in accordance
with nonconformist 
manifestos.

Abhorrence within lungs,
like asbestos
reveling in punk-rock forest nettles.

When the dust finally settles,
if you see me from afar,
I hope it looks like bottle rockets
and shooting stars.

I’d still
take you all the way
with me
if I could.

If you’d let
me.

Willie Watt
07.18.17 

 

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