the eternal desert

rain in the first grey light of a
friday morning
and the space between us defined by
nothing but emptiness

the air burned
where we've touched it

my fingers moving slowly over
the memory of your shape

crawling silently to the point where
the poem
and the reality separate

the endless hours of mindless anger
spent staring at blank pages

the sound of interstate traffic
and of three different clocks

the sound

not of anything in particular
but of everything
and the way that no room is left for words

the way that things matter
when they're all you have

the way they fade

and who i hate is never clear
and who i love is never certain
and it's here that i finally realize how
lost i really am

it's here that one of us says
i wish you were dead
and waits for an answer

and silence is as
bitter a victory as any

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