Shifting from the quiet night by the fury of an alarm clock used up by the summer months it slowly simmered away with , the morning buzzes of schedules, humidity , waiting, and reminiscing.

Sometimes luck finds us in indelible pricks to the skin, surfacing for masochists gouging deep into themselves, into months,
receiving returns to often familiar endorphin rushes,
luck's lysed like the bursting of boxcars from our dicey rolls we shook in anticipation
like I shivered on the couch and rattle awkwardly in an open set of arms.

and each morning is as loaded with luck
as the amount of ammunition we keep close ready to fling ourselves into
when we're loaded with our insecurities and self hatred
as if we're meant to be flammable

but I would never hurt myself here,
here where I keep the blankets damp after the dryer's failed attempts
I can't toss you into being something warm, like I can't keep summer close,
but I keep the blankets humid like a reminder
and roll the dice anyway,

like maybe somethings can't be forced, but others can be mimicked,
and these false feelings of unfulfillable goals,
are as meek and powerless as the hope we throw away into fountains when it gets too hot for change to sit idle in our pockets.

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