A Long Day’s Digression



Florescent light like gray sand filling in every little crack every little nick every imperfection in the sheen.


Can’t find that last position that I had shifting from side to side flexing one hand then the other eyes burning.


Adrift in what ifs and what nows and who wills and who won’ts and why would shes and when will Is.



Weary as the grave weary as the grave as the grave in December.




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