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Why am I stuck here,

Why am I stuck here,
                      revolving ’round the thought of you–
                                      that serpent inward/hid?

Why am I convincing myself
                            to be in love with you
                                                when all I feel is a twinge
                                                                       a singe
                                                                       of nerve
                                                            — no butterflies,
                                                                 more of a mashing
                                                                            a constriction of the
                                                                                              ‘testines
                                                                           as though my heart
                                                                                         my apple
                                                                                         my core
                                                                                were gravity’d
                                                                                       to pit of me
                                                                                       in search
                                                                                       in pull, inward/guide
                                                                    &nbsp
;&
nbsp;                               of you..

And amongst the lumber, a bee struck up a game of tag
when thinking

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