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Big Ben counting time. Neruda love in stanzas. The criminal in me, the seconds I cradle the gun about to go off in my hand like a small baby animal. A leap from a nine story 

building. Carjacking youth. The wet streets slick with oil. Thrill beats a rhythm in the bouncing a nervous knee. Homicidal kisses along the way. A comfortable silence         

crushed like coke and snorted into the noses of lives never fulfilled. Intrusion into misled existences can slip in quite comfortably when you’re out step. Quick draw

of a Marlboro. Inhale smoke, blend into the blue haze of the club. Washing up on the shoreline freezing. A bang goes off in my veins that told me they were bulletproof.

The gun is still in my hand and no bullet has exited. I’m just freezing and thinking about time and our apartment and how it was a home for a while, where actually I 

did normally things like made dinner and ate breakfast. The desk where I wrote the empty spaces between our words and scribed the aches when it was far too much

To kiss or speak. I think of Big Ben forever stuck lamenting time and Neruda immortalized in stanzas of timeless love. It must be so hard for them to keep warm, I think,

shivering to keep warm in the cool breeze of timeless mistaken identity, as a poet, who knows something about neither love nor time.

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