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Hubble Flow: the Recession of Celestial Objects fr At the first meeting, our molecules of breath danced in each other's air. Our space between words was a brightly-lit plain, plump with the promise of new seed. The second time, you brought predicable roses. You glanced at your watch, locking us into the rising of velvet curtains and the swaying of a baton. Excellent, but there was no time to make deltas in brie, tongues foraging across sesame crackers, hands reaching together for spreading. The third time, you arrived late and puffed up. Your breath reeked of Kant. You expanded, floating on hackneyed anecdote. Your waving hands displaced the tender aroma of spice cake. Today, our colognes clash in the hallway. You waltz by numbers. I want to splash electrons, to explode bubble wrap with ballet slippers. Back up, you are stepping on my toes. |
Additional Notes:
This is a prose poem.
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