In the middle of the fight,
I get the urge
to touch her face
one last time
while I still recognize it.

Under the hum
of static electricity
in my head,
it no longer matters
who was right or wrong,
borrowed time’s not long.

When the storm
finally rolls out,
there she’ll be
in that familiar
fight or flight pose,
telling me
I need to get help
or she’s leaving.

Or maybe I’ll be alone,
trying to piece together
the kinescope clips
of what I need
to apologize for,
if I can.

Or something worse.

-GD Butler

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