The Gun at the Wedding Chapel

Haven’t been blogging for a while since Uni work has gotten the better of me (I know: terrible). This is my poem this week:

 

THE GUN AT THE WEDDING CHAPEL HAS NO PRINTS

We count the space

between us on our thumbs

and fingers. Watch as

our tips bruise.

See the ripples, who we are,

on each become stagnant,

turn purple and black

like the far reaches of a sunset.

We’ve lost who we are.

Standing

side by side, we are doubtful

of the hands of lovers and newly-lovers.

we look at each other

from different sides of a ceremony

for that’s all we can do. Look

we bring a gun

to our wedding vows

and wonder why our fingers can’t touch.

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