Pity Sex
nothing rips through me
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Today. Today. I imagined your face. Flecked with rose. The first of spring. Freckled nose. âPathos of things.â Iâm okay. Nothing rips through me, like you and the Lemonheads. Worn computer screen, cybernetic atrophy. Staring back at me, someone I canât reach. Forever. Digital ring, doesnât fit me. Not big enough. Iâve got big needs. My own Vermont, lovely in spring. Iâll never know. âPathos of things.â Iâm okay.