We had a rule. Attack,
Attack, back.
Fighting kept us suspended,
A pen over an ending,
A sentence refusing sense,
A court without law.

But you used rhythm against me
After you won words in that poker hand
And all I won were those naked photos.
You turned our fights into rhymes,
You turned your life into moments,
Weak and final.

I wanted infinity and you
Needed an apocalypse
To feel time. But
How can continuity compete,
With something so complete
As a fucking line?