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reallyoldturtle's journal
the light was dimmer by that window, by the window pane,
and i wish i could have spoken.
but sometimes time freezes and sounds like
an album of that band, selling two copies
every year, and that too on halloweens or christmas eves.
I met someone, maybe a girl; but it wasn't you,
in my head, for two minutes or more. And she kept singing
through a China bowl, and it sounded weird and selfish.
The night wore it's thick veil and smelled something
like this, of leftovers thrown through that window -
And I was already seven months sober. And sad.
And, for this?
A night, directly bought off a three pound luncheon;
where, at most three people would come into my dreams
for reasons unknown to me and my tiny body.
I am used to this space.
This little space that my mind takes inside me
like yesternight's half-lit dreams reminded me
that love doesn't come up to you, chewing blue mint
and doesn't kiss you on your neck, giving you goosebumps.
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