(From Late November)
January 30, 2008
Every other day the tempests rise
And fall–sometimes. I remember exactly where I was the
Last time
We met in my thoughts,
And how I stood. The shapes behind my
Eyes fell to the right,
They followed the line of traffic.
In the same direction you went.
Every three days I wish I was someone else,
Someone with a better sense of
Direction.
But for now I can only look at the
Spaces between each step,
And at the holes that gape in my teeth
When I sleep.
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