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	Tomorrow is Another Chance at Comfort
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Running hands along the row of weeds and tall grass behind the fallen trees.
Walking the line where cultivated care meets chaotic growth. The sky is a dim
maroon on black where the stormy clouds are not hovering still in a patient
dance. Your smile cracks under the weight of leaning flowers and dying sumac.
The taste of your love washing away through a strainer. I do not remember how
it feels to be blind like that. I see from the corners to the center in
spiral patterns. Your images are blurry and cropped where your hands speak
other languages. My fingers once knew those syllables. The pear tree fell but
it still looks green on one side. The black air of the basement is not a
foreign entity, it caresses those who know its shapes and forms. Stepping up
the stairs my feet are erasers wiping away the old wounds. Washing the
windows and putting up tasteful artwork. Watching birds on a wire. Erasing
the empty spaces and filling them with some semblance of order. Running along
the edge of the field where the chain link fence stops for a moment and the
ridge falls away into endless descent. Falling into light. Stretching out
like a mountaintop highway along the spine of the world, endless, buses
taking everyone I know with me to some place we will never arrive at. Just
staring out the window at the bright blue sky turning dark and maroon between
stormy clouds hovering. Running my hands through the weeds looking for
flowers. Floral clips in natural hair. Looking for a centerpiece. Something
for a pedestal better left empty. A phrase for you.

Longing grows slender and large from this hole in the heart.