weekend

People are confusing and sad and always hiding

in their little snail shells, bellies pressed

down to the floor. My shell is a bottle I found

upside-down in a swamp.

What are we and where are we going? I might ask

if I thought an answer would come, but no one knows.

[I did not know what I was saying goodbye to.]

What makes me less beautiful?

You, love, walked out of the mist,

wrapped your arms around me

and left while I slept. Your presence,

your existence gives me hope.

What will we regret next year?

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