the bone

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Sometimes you get the good parts cut away from the bone. You get served up on yourself and left to fend for things you shouldn’t want anymore. I’ve got phantom limbs when I think of you, phantom heartbeats and phantom needs. I get electrical shocks behind my knees that lead to the hallways we no longer inhabit. People have a way of pulling themselves apart. 

When I wake up in the night there are small spaces where I forget. 

Someone told me recently, of how quickly everything will pass, how even this will searing white and hot, will fade with days that come and go. I cannot decide by the hour what I want more, to be rid of it or to etch it into stone. What a strange twisted gift to feel everything so heavily. I’ve come to a place where the streets are not marked.  

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