her hair was the color of october cornfields
hanging in uneven curls around her face,
a photograph hidden in a box somewhere.

he was a black and white print,
wet and straight from the negative. or maybe
he was the negative, the one who never
believed in happy endings until goldilocks
arrived. suddenly the prince of the dark room
loved. and he was far from kansas, indiana, iowa,
whatever godforsakenstate it was that overflowed
with the cornfields of her hair.

she watched him in dreams, his eyes shaded
by some dark corner of her echoing mind.
he seemed mute in a prison of his anger
but free in the open spaces of his heart. anger,
he says, is only the outward appearance.

she doesn’t know the oceans of his eyes,
their unrelenting sadness, and the gravity
that cannot be explained.

we think it’s because
their core is superheating, spinning so fast
that gravity pulls them back together like two stars
about to collide.

they will explode this time. it will end.
and the silent, soulless void will persist afterward.

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