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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