…fresh is fresh

dsc_0039Fresh like my attitude and provincial

like my sense of reality, togetherness.

Trees staring, prying

fingers aimed and scratchy, lingering

in covalent memory,  those void

of pain, pressure,  an epiphany-like presence

of point and lunacy all

at once. Because there is no control

there, only a piece of string taped

to a plaster ceiling, hanging forgotten

but no less prevalent, a message

from that other version of you, the one

I flounder to smile at, with,  before, tell

it I miss you, and it will listen

In ghoulish silence. Only that reality is

distance,  as am I, as is another earth

on which we learned we weren’t that

special,  spacial, that we were done.

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