Size / / /

Miranda was tall

With black hair

Green eyes

And dark brown skin

Dappled with freckles

The roboticist in Busan

Was an artist

She was beautiful enough

To break Vincent's heart

Nearly every day

Occasionally he would awaken

Covered in sweat

And reach for Miranda

You were dreaming about her again,

Miranda would murmur,

Your old wife

Vincent was not a cruel man

But sometimes he longed to

Peel back the perfect fibreglass skin

To unplug Miranda and leave her

Beside the curb

Like an old refrigerator

Or stove

That is true,

Vincent would say on these nights,

But you are the one who is with me.

It is you I spend my life with.

We are both all we have,

Miranda would agree

Sometimes moving closer

And then sometimes not

Matthew Stranach is from Fredericton, Canada. He writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction which have appeared in a wide variety of online and print publications. Matt is currently living overseas with his wife and young son. He hopes you are having a great day.
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
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