Move

This itch
to find a new island.
To explore.

That unintentional crease
in the sleeve.

This dust
on the needle as it loses meaning
without skipping a beat,

without a turntable
to save you.

That flip
of the hair
tossed off so easily.

This trigger false comfort—
the detoxification.

That song played
on repeat
before the bomb explodes.

This time,
the answers cannot be found

upside down
in the back of the book.
That twitch most of all

because, sometimes, you just want
to dance.

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