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that summer, i couldn’t dare to touch the floor; every human i see wears your shirt,
every woman i stalk wears your sympathy.
my morning walks to class were rushed and weak,
i only walk fast to feel the stillness of the ground,
to shudder at the cool breeze flicking my cheek. i am still searching for the moral from this pain.
like your disappearance itself, the end of this solstice is funnily predictable.
has hell been cold this entire time?
somehow i still mourned.
i blink twice for the signs of upcoming destruction;
maybe it’s the funny wits about boring jobs.
maybe it’s the alarming shades of blue beaming during an hour walk.
maybe it’s the way i talk about loneliness.
maybe it’s my own loneliness.
when you welcomed me in your past, i failed to photograph a future.
i didn’t mean to disrupt the third act.
five months, i whimpered. the lunch i didn’t touch,
the shivering calls in a bathroom stall,
the deafening wails on those darkening blue nights.
i went downstairs just to starve dinner once again.
my longing for your presence bores the sympathy out of my friends.
maybe i should’ve gone for a plastic wrap, a simple bag.
when you throw the confetti away, i would only remember its failure to be pretty.
to think i was the one who nurtured your disappointment.