Postcard From There

August 18, 2013

And too afraid to make sense of this
That would probably come out as nonsense.
To say how much I miss
That sense of you
Where I could feel through walls,
See your thoughts through your eyes.

You see I lost parts of me.
And I can’t bring them back.
But I can’t explain to you how much it means to me,
For maybe you don’t see the loss so hard
And how much I die
When I recall what I cannot.

I trundle about
On my peg-leg of reality,
Shuffling my fingers across the shuttle,
Weaving the means to scratch by.
And it seems sometimes
That this is all I have,
All else scattered to four winds.
No passion.

None of what I was.
Just gray morass of breathing.
Of peering from apprehensive eyes.
Fine on the skin, real and tangible,
But empty as a dried pomegranate,
And hard.
And if that is real life?
I want to be fake.


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