There are dreams in the spaces
Between, where he calls out as
Tachyons zip by, sauntering
backwards through time
pummeling brain matter and
screeching migraine harsh,
sledgehammer subtle in the
steady thud-thump of impact.
He just wants me to know
that it’ll be okay one day, that
it’ll all come crashing back
together eventually, even if
it means the end of all we know.
Cargo
The life of a corporate mercenary is one long boring wait, punctuated by brief, bright red bouts of violence.