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Tuesday, June 22, 2010


She would leave on a Sunday night
Or a Monday morning
Leaving me with a dead place
Haunted with passions

I would walk in after minutes or a day
See my mess and hear vacancy
Glance for a nugget she may have left behind
Never a lonlyness that deep

Gradually the place would feel mine again
Not ours. Not about her.
I’d drink and smoke and write
Nasty stuff, but true

On many levels, I would look forward
to her coming back and
drinking with me
before going to bed

the next day she would leave the place just as dead
as empty as the graveyard
as I lied in bed like a corpse with a pulse
but not as dead as most.

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