against the velvet and wool of my shirts
which only point out that I have a short torso
its too dark here to see the scars on my hands, and on my legs
and to see that I've lost the knack for writing
and words no longer paddle across my brain
the blood on my hand
is no longer there
I look
although this closet is thick
I can hear the apples dropping
creating a clamor larger
then my self
falling as my arms twist and my feet feel
skimming down the branches to an unknown place
in the corners
that will become so easy
my feet feel the pavement
the water on the sharp blades of grass in the night
the bike spinning wheels
the ground splashing
and I saw a fox
and I saw a bird with no head (but someone cared enough to tag it's foot)
and I saw a squirrel with no insides
and I saw a sunrise and a sunrise and a sunrise until I come home when it's dark
my toes slip down the slime of the berries on which the chickadees feast
and touch the black underbrush
and climb home with sick stomach feeling
and strip off the moisture form my hair
and strip off my cloths from my steaming body
as fresh as the mist
yes, I've seen two sunrises
one hour apart
and you leave the day after tomorrow
and you left saturday
and you left tuesday
and you are gone
running has been forgotten
to forget pain, to release joy
this odd everything left
left
i wish the scratches were still there
or at least a scar
but all that remains are a few etched lines
that were given by deviant scissors, or some careless page
i miss
i haven't slept these past days
i haven't slept these past
days
i haven't
slept
these past days
the door never needs to be opened
the window is
enough of my mind that it spills outside
our cloths might get soaked
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