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everything

i sit and stare at a spot i’ve not looked at before,
hoping the clarity returns and i can think of something more to say.
but words find there way around me, not intersecting with my thoughts, no.. no way to say how much i’ve missed you, how many times a day i find myself lost in thought of you and all you meant to me.
so intangible, the rough tongue of reality licks my hand and i try to think of something more to tell you. i try to think of what you don’t already know, and i fall short again.
interruptions, like craters, complicate our terrain and make it harder to run in a straight line to you, but i think we can make it if we go around. — at least that’s how the crisis-ridden got where they are. i don’t want that; i won’t be a better person by forgetting who i was. i can’t live life like a soldier when i’m a poet.

so many thoughts have come when we’re awake and ready, but never bother to write them down. “told you.” yeah, you did, but i’ve never listened and probably never will– it’s much less effort to make a mistake than correct the problem.

revisionist
my shoes stink

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