I draw fault lines in your quake, shaking
at the symmetry in which we are divided;
you are not the world I once woke to,

and I am no more the earth
you dug into with callused hands
that craved our growth.

There is only air between us, dense
as it is, obscuring our views, waiting for
onlookers to see the mess we’ve made.

Originally published in Issue 23 of Up the Staircase Quarterly:



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