You are the morning sun snaked too late
and lonely under the edge of my eyes.
You are the empty covers, the scent-less sheets,
the articles of one person's life scattered across
an apartment.
You are the steep of soaking dishes, unnecessary two nights
in a row.
You are the soreness of that soft
and raging place--longed and lingered over fiercely until
forgotten in quick'ning afternoon light (taillights edging away).
You are an uneasy bookend—
a fiery chapter.
You are the lost
and limitless stretch between sensation
and hope.
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