Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Second May Twenty Sixteen







This morning I woke up and all the pain
I've ever felt had jammed in the middle of my throat
Every breath and blink had to be calculated twice
You're not here.
You're not here.

What replaces us is a set of worn doors with chipped gloss
Tightly shut.
Yet the songs you whistled find me at my most vulnerable and
sheets of barb wire themselves around my throat
You're not here.
You're not here.

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