Underwater Heart

I wanted you to be
safe and comfortable.
I wanted to hold
your hand; I wanted
to close my eyes
and listen.

The symphony in the dark
sang of waves and beats,
an asymmetric form
breaking and rebreaking
inside the quiet glare
of a small, electric light.

No one but the experts know
what the pictures mean,
and we will ignore half of them anyway,
but I mean to get a tricuspid tattoo around my wrist,
a forever moment of

three seconds at most,

a thin line of strange regularity,
reminding me of a simple wonder
and a certain truth:

no one says it like you do.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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