The bomb wanted to hold us, but our flesh doesn't keep well touched by tentacles of flame, shrapnel makes the beloved bleed.
The bomb wanted to graze our fluffy hair and gaze longingly at our limbs; we responded by going bald and casting permanent shadows on walls.
The bomb wanted to breathe its promises into our ear, whisper its sheltering words. We died by the score, prostrating ourselves to the metal gods we made.
The bomb worried - our voices crumbled to nothing, our teeth fell softly to the ground.
The bomb stopped trying to love us and tried to love itself.
We had never asked the bomb to love us.
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