you have slowly come to terms with how the skywalk curves into your clavicle when the last songs on my i-pod loses its record into the unsynchronized stuttering of a crowd.
this day has become schizophrenic, and more paranoid than the country weeks during world war II; but you trace the back alleys of a dead city, where grief is dragged like a prostitute and sold into a brothel of hand-me-down memories.
there is a road crawling down the planes of your shoulder blades and curling into the ridges of your spine before valleying into your ribs. i have walked that road with half a lung full of cigarette ashes and a palm desperately pretending to read braille, as if scars tended to be the best poets, who wrote in a language the literate could never apprehend.
you still remain unexplained.
yesterday, i had spent three hours talking…
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