the music rode shotgun,
watching us move
moving mountains to find
the glaciers beneath
and your body, the driver,
the running red lighter
spinning circles to burn
the imprinted skin.
the Blue song, a shotgun,
a barrel to temple
line our heads up just right,
your cheek pressed to mine
and the gasping, the heaving,
the scrape of the ceiling
peeling layers to show us
the imprinted skin.
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