It’s not getting any better.
And I’m not going to be alright.
The water’s frozen over.
With the cracking of the ice, like the cracking of my back.
I can hear no movement coming.
There is nothing.
And I have become it.
I sleep too much and I speak too low.
For in their silence, I can still hear your laugh.
The voices of others are the sound of ground glass.
The chaos of crickets as I lay my head on the grass.
There are photos of us.
You and I in the background
Of somebody’s memories.
I found them by chance.
In a hole in a wall that you built.
I hold them too close.
Don’t I always?
I don’t suppose you know they exist.
I lit them by moonlight at my window.
To put a bit of fight in my chest.
I smoke a lot of cigarettes.
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