This is not a poem
Every bone, though not broken
sticks out sorely.
As the angry sun raged through
the dusty afternoon
I have sat here for long observing
how the hot air never flows
Nothing every flows in here, tbh
– not me and surely not you.
As I leave for the last time
I’m not sure anybody else knows
It’s a quiet goodbye and I’m sorry
but I wish I were sorrier.
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