Bury the bone in a shirt from 2004,
your scent gone acrid in the cotton.
Walk the dirt with the shoes you
ought to have thrown out.
Your eyes are used to this,
your body is unmoved by it.
Theseus composed of
lyrical falsities, the detuned
guitar you haven't touched
since highschool.
My thumbs press into your ribs,
oh Atlas, whisper your recollection
of times when the world spun
and you were dizzy-happy.
Perseus breaks the bold
discomfort of stagnant
movement, your joints burning.
Overcome, underdone,
where does Nemesis tip her hand?
Where does she pour her tears?
It's simple in its complexity —
what a Greek tragedy
you are, my love.

- a.a.j // May 2022