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The thumb mounds of my palms know my face well, as my fingertips remind the corners of my remnant eyes. I say my eyes are remnant because ever since I swallowed the sorrow of the world when I was a little boy, my eyes have changed color. I used to tell all the girls I wanted to kiss at the ice skating rink that when I was in love, my eyes turned green. They were always green back then because I was always in love.

Most of my life people didn’t pay much attention to me, even if they saw me every single day. I was a blase. When adolescence tumbled through me, I was still skinny and small, the doctor of awkward. Girls thought I was funny and liked the looks of my River Phoenix friend so they mostly wandered my meanderings while their wonders lost. I didn’t know I had potential.

When I hear clocks tick, I think about Angkor Wat. Perhaps the high of the joint Andy and I smoked before we climbed up the steep steps of that history made it all feel like saffron time. I think about his wife who traveled with us, Jen always on my side. Sand and rocks inhibit a tide that almost never rises. Their children grow. I remain as usual.

I have a lover that neverminds my past and recent present. She minds only my lack of, of which I forge forget. I am a terrible lover caught with brown eyes. Only in the early morning do they happen a hue of yellow with the sun that slants through the plastic blinds of our railroad apartment. Trying to never playing tadpole with the other girls.

I’m not a thief, but I have stolen by accident. Once when I was pea, I reached into a barrel of tin cars over my mother’s shoulder at a toy shop. Twice when I was a teenager and I stole a candy bar. Thrice when I was twenty one and I left a girl who asked me to stay, on the steps of the Vienna Opera House of regret. Ever count to three? Better do it now.

I made much more recently without really doing anything. I only got a peace of mind. I found a bunch of free cards I got at the church thrift shop. Most are artworks or wondrous flowers. Some night long ago that I forged forget again, I must have written letters in these cards. Some regard, “To whom it may concern”, another, “To whom I write may be anyone,” They are all twenty to myself, all attempting wisdom like a suicide. I hid them all away like a smooth rock in my inside pocket.

Cold palms on the rough stubble resound. Too tall a hope empties early for the thirsty. Drink a. Comb thrift stores and hear the hum of the industry. Sigh for. Drift a drink toke. Smile easy when maintenance occurs. Sing the song you don’t know.

These lines of time beg difference. Somehow matters like this get lost in more. Swallowing hard is just a ploy, the metallic taste of failure means nothing, closing your eyes mutes matters. Beating self up.

Tomorrow I had an idea not to worry, only to fall forward. The relief was glorious while I whiled to make more of today with leftover yesterday.

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