waves
my clock—
synced mere seconds past
yours, carves a great chasm
we fail—
to match everything at
once, like astigmatic sine waves
so close to clarity yet
never quite reaching it,
resounding an apocalypse all the while—
yet every scene sears memories
when spent with you
attached like skin grafts,
each part persisting from the other—
we meld into existence—
both within and without
