Love Song on Longwave
Boxed here, her room, fruit punch served as breakfast, no TV, bad reception, books on architecture, more on trees, runes, in dust. The mattress, as ever, unshaped to my skin, bones; and so the pain goes, comes in waves. Now the radio, its waves, long and lonely, and she and I in every note. Each point, the scan finds some instrument, some aria, far flung, from the far reaches […]
Melancholy Hyperbole 