By Laurence Foshee
is seated hunting for an isn’t: half-lit yule questions of negatives, WASPyish contrapuntal visages, clutched Pirandellini pale ale, or something, anything, any something – isn’t.
It’s … probably definitely the beer at The Bohemian talking through me, but I keep concurrently not discerning why and doting on how exactly damn much.
I love her, in all its (understood as) unreturned shimmering, past that autoclave first decade mark, and reverberating into wonder on which span of time it’s gonna tuck me away within a life of being alone.
But it’s alright; human life isn’t all that long in the first place, I’d guess.
Laurence Foshee is a Tulsa, Oklahoma native with poetry and flash fiction in eMerge Magazine and Dragon Poet Review. He is avid reader and experimenter with the form and subject of courtly love or love-loss.