| Subject: untitled (again) |
Author:
sober
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Date Posted: 17:18:28 10/24/01 Wed
Another unprocessed conversation
lacking all the elements that invited you to me.
I refer to your absence sometimes,
leaving me with a hollow hand
that falls
open shut.
A government monopoly of a talented face,
with instructions to ignore reluctance.
Now it's my turn to dress you up.
I watch you, watch yourself,
walk by.
And I don't think it's confidence that strenghtens your step.
I heard the conversation,
y'know,
the one I wasn't supposed to hear,
and I must say you sound bitter in the morning.
Until you hugged.
They had a whole movement pertaining to this in the 20s.
It's called surreal.
But I'm left only with the real...
yet I'm happy with MY real.
I hate how we never clash.
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