it's kismet
in the same way
kicking my own ass can be
beautiful
breathtaking,
uneven sighs
of discontentment
swirling around
in my lungs
all sandcastles,
longing present
in the same way
that we don't get to pick
we are all
doomed in mystery,
clothes pinned like last night's
dirty linen
plucked from the thickest grief
and gasping for oxygen
while sinking low
wax with rotting, bated breath.