Postmodern Sonnet

They. Who? Remixed your soul.
A name chopped past MIRAFYN
Then a number, roughly, an age?
A scratch of photos suggesting a girl. You? Too
Old. 24. We bear the weight unnaming
You of living. Who? Leave this place we will find you
Followers who know better, me
Who cannot figure out why 
No better, tho I sure as hell feel it
Come to my bones.

"I so want to touch you
To your face, lips,
Can we get acquainted?"

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