you have grown into the habit of walking out,
and grown out of the habit of sneaking past the door
when we slept-
because you were convinced
that the walls slammed into our bones
hard enough to make us sick.
you used to think of every coincidence
i don’t know what you think of anymore.
these last few years,
you’ve been leaving too many footprints
on the floors
from the number of times
you’ve almost walked out,
because the seasons were seeping through the ceiling
and you’ve been away for far too long
to remember how to
we keep painting everything in white
before you come back-
it’s tragic for new tables to have old mats,
but not nearly as much as
for old faces to have new feelings.
the thing about hatred is that
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