Standing at my door

April 11, 2012


Standing at my door. Sitting on my chair. Laying in my bed. No one there. You talked at 100 mph. Kept stuffing yourself. Into an envelope. Of generalizations. I didn’t want to tell you. That in your loneliness you already had me. All you had to do was stop talking. The silence would have healed you. But you kept ripping off the scab.

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