I thought I was picking you up, but I was picking a fight, and without ever touching me you had me up against the ropes.
Circling, circling, both rarely risking the raising of an arm to expose the head. Gloves soften blows surrounded by silence, but the harshest hits always land.
Punches thrown over tabletops, feints right and left, referee's observer effect, exhaustion. I'm no survivor; I get tired. Battered. And one time I stopped blocking and your old moves got past me and the lids of my eyes slammed shut around your fist. And even with the din of my limbs against the floor I could not fail to hear it, "KO."