Why is there nothing to say anymore?
The grey we inhale bleaches
the words on our chlorine breaths;
and the effort of every breath
But this is how it works:
we're on a carousel and
the animals have been replaced
by the spines of debutantes and gigolos;
and with every revolution
their vertebrae snap
and we make a wish.
I wish . . .
"I have nothing to say," she says.
"I have a bulimic tongue," he responds.
she smiles. "You have an anorexic soul."
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