in this city i have no tongue, only meek eyes that trot the sidewalk as if some asphalt answer will come surging up to meet me.
all my syntax coming fumblingly apart, my reluctant stumbling attempts to reach you. (all the things we don't say.)
my tongue exploring my own mouth for lack of yours. the dead air that stretches between us, humming.
i'm not poetic when all i am is fist-gnawingly missing you.
when all i can remember is skin.
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