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Here you are in a car
weaving in and out of me
and my life bordered by
dashed lines, you’re just
another in the traffic that
defines me: a lane en route.

I’ve found in my loneliness
I’m destined to be perpetually
late but regardless in a month
I’ll catch myself weaving the
lanes up seventy-eight, all
expectations beside me.

Only nothing is worth itself.
How do the cities feel, where
everyone knows you, where
you don’t know a soul–to travel
a world that mouths you on
their way to work;

across borders you could
belong to but you only do in
transit–and in hotels where
maybe you’re next to a someone,
or is it you always fall and wake
alone?

I fear you’re forever words
of a mouth I’ll struggle to
[never] know past each
chorus. There’s a face value
to knowing you, it keeps me
hopeless and detached.

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