so many pomes are
starting
with
some line about sitting alone.
simple chair still under me/feet quiet in tired socks.
there is so much else
to
fill the
page with/so much pregnant prose
but all
i got today is
how
strange it is to only cry in my dreams now
and
not
the
bright bathrooms any more
where water stains the mirror.
i must miss the release
i’m thinking
sat
here
alone.
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