A shell to the ear produces no sound;
oceans found dried up long ago. Blue
sky that is just someone else's opinion,
not true for everybody. Songs speaking
directly to you: capital L love in one
small hand; the word "no" in the other,
loss all over your face. A dozen phone
phone calls made to voicemail, thick
with nothing. Bird cries from outside
describe the dimensions of the room
where you reside isolated, can't escape
can't hide. Doors that weigh too much
to open from the inside. When you cook,
there're always leftovers, always, because
you still can't help but cook for someone
else that isn't there, hasn't been, or never
will. Sleep as escape. Romantic films
as stings to the face. The way you ache.
How someone's absence has so much
weight. How you wait, the way you wait.
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