White noise—
Static heavy
between my pupil
and my iris expanding
to meet our open space.
Touch, one between
another and never
together; I want
to be closer rather
than farther.
The steadfast
unicellular molecular
structure of ourselves
eats up daylight
in glass—
Our artificiality
creates, not yet—
bright red and soft
slender tensions—
reality. Relief.
Not many changes, but draft two.
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