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She was right when she spoke of me that day

Each word more painful than the one before

How could she not see what lead me this way?

Unaware she is, that she meant much more

I was to her, as they now are to me

Only a comfort to keep on a shelf

Blind to my purpose, I know they don't see

That I've lied to them, so why not myself?


I've become her to a number of them

I think that they will in turn do it too.

It would seem as though there must be one stem

So now I must ask, who did this to you?


I will no longer use them as my crutch

I'll sit and I'll hurt. I long for your touch.

There is a truth which cannot be deduced. You cannot arrive at it like your old family home. It is the sort of thing you experience (astroturf at night, under the lights and it feels like no one else is around but you, a relative stranger but friend, and this is my last memory of you---is that a star or a planet?) and when it is gone you wonder where the time went. It is the memory of dancing in the dark around a firepit in the rain. You flitter like a child and I feel like I'm lost, standing still because this spot doesn't seem any better than any other. You get your hairbrush. The one I never kissed but who smiled at me and I sure thought about it a lot. There is a part of our brains devoted to faces. It is like the movie which made you hurt to know someone who is now gone, and moreso that you saw them through masks and that they are farther away than you can guess. What is truth when you're wearing a mask? Sometimes it is like a home movie from another time. But you know the people in those movies. On the big screen, the people we meet are strangers to us. They come into our lives when the lights are off, and when they leave we wake up with a void where a false lifetime just was. Fiction is freeing but hollow---in the sense that you cannot grasp it. Only very few details are needed to pin together a story, and we lose the rest of them. It is impossible to live and know everything. What I'm trying to say is, kiss me?

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