These wispy things that take me back to you:
a sip of ice water,
cracked mud,
desperation on the coast,
a song that our souls disagreed,
strange tubes.
Your eyes aren't on my pages,
and I took that same old route which pangs me.
Our little men are gone.
Breathing and walking in two,
nervous, taciturn fingers,
when we're really alone, I'll tell you everything I couldn't feel
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