Hiccoughing on the heels
Of my escaping feet is my home. It
Sometimes sadly informs me that I am for a while
In exile. And if anyone could have helped me, it is you
Who are even further away than your memories, which are now
Fainting, choking on hasty slices of time. Infusions of poetry do not help.
It is probably for the best,
Forgetting you, I mean, because it
Tires me now, most of the time, to care.
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