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This is our last shot at conversation:
don’t drag me around, who are we now, but
this necessary annunciation?
Our tongues are tied, our lips are paper-cut
from the envelopes and their messages
we keep sealing so we can send them off
using our postage stamps like bandages–
this love has abscessed. My heart is a trough.
So I pack it gently, as if fragile,
like boxed up years I cannot move past.
Though its a habit of hearts so agile,
my mind is a wall. You jumped it aghast.

You are an invasion I cannot fight–
a thought I can’t shake in the dead of night

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