You’re tucked in hypogeum of my hatchback
tussling, to be culled into consciousness.
In our context, I am Cerberus.
Memorabilia is for monkeys.
As manager of a menagerie, I come with weight
but tonight your red bottoms trouble me.
Chronicles of your kittenish filter in.
With them arrive the ache of losing again.
Optics of my love narrowing into nothingness.
Snakebites are never alike but the echoes
of their agency are dictative. A confirmed
heretic, I choose instinct over instruction.