The flawed tics of a clock are perfect in measure, like cold creek water slipping through cupped hands.
I once had a perfect moment: a train heard miles away, tiny sparrows chirping, no dumbbells squishing my brain. Then like a slap to my head, I looked up and saw a 747 landing with its 747 anxious passages waiting to get off.
It's the same way love turns into a dagger or yesterday's beauty veers tragic locked in a cage plucking out its own feathers.
B.F.M.
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