Apocalypse

I miss you
like raindrops
and peaches
and poetry
that I’ve heard
but can never capture.
This wasteland wanting
nags at the edges
of memory
and squashes circles
of small illumination
with smoke
and pieces
of my heart.
And I miss you
like hot days
and sea-breeze nights,
like childhood
and gray clouds
bursting with hopes
of a tomorrow
lived centuries ago.
This apocalypse love
shrieks out
with raw throats
and I wonder
if I’ll ever feel you
again.

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