Scrub

When we choke, 

We cough together, 

Germs congeal, 

Upon our inseperable tongues, 

Meshed fabrics in a clotted air. 

I suspect the salt on your tongue, 

And the taste of your exposed skin, 

Those frightened blemishes are, 

Perhaps just a prison, 

For the evil things, 

Produced by mass pollution.

To die, 

Within the misty limbs, 

Of an old maiden, 

The sleeping monster, 

Laid to rest in the middle. 

I am inconsolable, 

I see you now, 

As just another carrier, 

And spend my days, 

In requiem for the spectral arc, 

The line of thought that brought us here. 

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