1923.

Of course, the womb was
long lost to fire and dust
by then, time eclipsed.

1922.

Time cycles ever
on in the slowest escape
from life's albatross.

1921.

We speak through our screens,
each letter an emotion
echoing backward.

1920.

Moratoriums
and dissections, your heart grows
tired explaining.

1919.

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

1918.

An anchor around
my neck of desecrated
bones, set to choking.

1917.

He speaks distortions
in each syllable of an
aching, broken heart.