557.

There is an air of
resolute anguish hung as
normal in the world.

556.

His words mime a need,
desperate for its quiet,
out to me in morse.

555.

The hush of opaque
features paint the days yearning
for ephemera.

554.

The dereliction
of cities. Reclaimed by force
to its origins.

553.

What agony this
body is coated in from
muscle's stretch and pull.

552.

His first words were set
in condemnation. What hurt
love's salvos can make.

551.

There is a hollow
ache inside my ribs, holding
up your missing frame.