Pulling your naked body out
of the Vegas rubble, I learned
something about radiation:
fickle death doesn’t always
blister or glow. Sometimes it
preserves things exactly as
I remember them: pale-lipped,
black hair streaming across my
shoulder, your body curled in
my arms, only sleeping.
I want to tear this mask off
and breathe one last gasp
of you, I want to press my
face against your poisonous
flesh, I want to touch you
like I touched you before the
horizon forgot how to go dark.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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